


I (don't) come to you seeking peace

by callmearcturus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Asexual Character, Daisy helps Jon understand fashion and that's why she's a true friend, Daisy is either the best or worst wingman its hard to say, Jon has a lot of emotions and zero ways to deal with them, Jon uses cooking as a metaphor for his asexuality but it doesn't work, M/M, Peter Lukas is just an eldritch PUA, Possessive Behavior, This Soap Opera You Call An Archive, Trans Male Character, ill-advised trysts in broom closets, playing havoc with season four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-07 16:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21460978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus
Summary: In his capacity as Peter Lukas' assistant, Martin dresses differently. The pale hues and muted blues of his family are smeared all over Martin like an bruise. It's formal. It's professional.For reasons he's not willing to examine right now, Joncannothandle this. At all.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner - background, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 265
Kudos: 1115





	1. the stone in you still hasn't hit bottom

It started long before Martin realized it was happening, and by the time he did… it honestly didn't matter anymore.

But the start of it had been after his final visit to Jon in the hospital, right after that disastrous Flesh attack at the Institute. Martin was exhausted, aching, and so alone. Melanie had been erratic enough to scare Martin the past months, their timid friendship over mid-day drinks entirely evaporated. And whatever inner steel was keeping Basira up and functional and moving, it was devoid of the warmth he'd once expected of her.

And Tim and Daisy… well.

So Martin went to Jon again, touched his lax fingers, and begged him to come back. Because goddammit, _ dammit, _ Martin needed him, he didn't have anything else left, everyone was gone and if Jon would just open his eyes, Martin _ knew _ he could do this. He'd have the strength to weather this.

It wasn't fair, to pin all his hopes on a dead man. But Martin was willing to be selfish, if he could just see Jon wake up.

Anyway.

It was raining outside when Martin left the hospital. A curtain of a downpour, moving like silk through the air. The din that surrounded him was absolute.

His breath hitched as he inhaled the damp air.

"Quite the storm we find ourselves in," Peter Lukas said, appearing from Martin's peripheral.

Martin stepped away, heart racing. It made his head hurt, the whiplash from his sorrow to this sudden adrenaline.

"What are you doing here?" Martin asked haltingly. He didn't like Lukas being so close to where Jon was-- to Jon.

Lukas didn't truly look in Martin's direction, turning bright blue eyes to the landscape around them, taking in the rain. "We're going to be working together, Martin. There's no need to be so nervous."

"I-- now?" He'd hung up with Lukas not fifteen minutes ago, and he was _ here? _ Already?

"I thought you might be caught in this terrible spot of weather. I have no intention of having you fend for yourself."

There was a thread of something in his voice, like a joke Martin didn't know the punchline to. "Fine," Martin said. He wrapped his arms around himself. The chill in the air was intense. "Can we go?"

"My driver will be coming around," Lukas said with the same weird sing-songy warmth that felt papier-mache; soft in some places, brittle in others.

Martin stared out, looking for a car to pull up.

A sudden, dense weight settled around his shoulders. Lukas' jacket. It was a sturdy navy blue wool that smelt intensely of salt spray. Immediately, the chill that was biting at Martin's skin through his shirt vanished. It was like a shield placed over him.

And for that immediate moment, Martin felt cared for.

He remembered soon after that this coat belonged to an avatar of the Lonely, but by then a sleek black car was pulling up, and Lukas was opening the door for him.

"Let's get started," Peter Lukas said.

Martin tugged the coat further around himself and got into the car.

* * *

As juvenile as it sounded, Jon often had trouble figuring out that he cared about people.

No, that phrasing was inaccurate. Too passive. Jon cared a great deal about a lot of people, more than was strictly wise given the gravity of his situation. Being better at the cold arithmetic that suited the stakes of his life would make things dramatically easier. But he wasn't so lucky. Another way he was an unworthy successor to Gertrude, perhaps.

But no, while Jon was perfectly capable of caring for people, he wasn't very good at knowing when his… affections grew beyond that baseline. When he thought of it, he likened it to a growth in his chest, like vines, like weeds, a burgeoning warmth that spread deep roots and tender greenery through his ribcage, curling around the lattices and locking into place.

He didn't really _ notice _ this happening until the conflagration, until he was so lush with it that the first spark of intent set everything up like a forest fire. Then there was smoke in his mouth and heat pounding through his blood and he was trying to put out an inferno with glasses of water. It was all-consuming.

It was a distinctly strange feeling, to be alight while Martin stood there, apparently unable to feel the heat, to know that Jon was burning up just looking at him.

But Martin was hardly looking at him, really. Through him, askance at the wall beside Jon's head, never straight on.

Apparently Martin didn't notice any of it, and Jon felt hysterical verdant laughter pressing up against the top of his throat.

When Martin walked away, Jon watched him go, burning hot and angry.

Jon fumed for a while about it, because while six months had passed for everyone else, it hadn't really for him, and dealing with that dissonance was like holding a viper. He felt left behind, discarded suddenly and viciously.

Which wasn't fair. But it was hard to be rational about things when you were dealing with a sudden awareness of how utterly and completely you'd fallen for someone.

* * *

So the first time Jon stumbled into Martin's path, he hadn't noticed anything but the softness of Martin's mouth as his lips formed a surprised little 'o' and the pink that suffused from his neck up into his cheeks and how he anxiously swiped his hair behind his ear three times in the course of the conversation, and how each time it slipped loose to form this little flicked curl around his cheek.

There'd been a lot to catalog. It wasn't until after the coffin that Jon noticed the whole of him.

He was following Basira and Daisy down the stairs into the archives, bone-tired and exhilarated from the escape from the Buried. As they staggered across the ground floor, they drew plenty of stares from the other members of the Institute. It must've been an incredible sight; the head archivist and one of his assistants emerging from Artefact Storage coated in a layer of dust.

Jon was mostly focused on reaching the stairs down to the Archives so he could find a nice place to pass out in, when he suddenly looked up.

There was no reason to do so, except a lightning flash of intuition that told him he'd want to do so right then, right now, look up and pivot on his heel a little to reorient.

He looked up the grand staircase, all the way up to the top floor landing. There was no time between him looking up and finding Martin standing there, no lag time, just immediate connection of his gaze with Martin.

Martin flinched, his eyes widening. He was standing up there, alone on the top floor, leaning on the railing to apparently watch Jon and Daisy limp their way out of the Buried. It was plain on his face that he'd been caught.

Jon stood there and watched him. After three days of claustrophobia and fear and holding Daisy's bleeding heart in his hands, he needed this.

And with the benefit of distance, Jon got a better look at him. And he was _ wrong _ , somehow. He was drained of hue, covered in pale linen and a waistcoat of very understated blue-on-navy brocade.

Jon's brow furrowed as he peered up at Martin. Because, to be totally frank: what the hell? Did the head of institute's assistant have a _ dress code? _

He was still thinking about this when Martin seemed to decide their long-distance moment of connection was over. The time was up, and he stepped away from the banister and disappeared from view.

There was a very clear idea passed to Jon, that he'd been… given something, an indulgence, been allowed to stare at Martin for a while. And then it was over.

He was _ not _ going to be grateful for it. That was absurd and it burned ( _ burned) _ in him that this entire game was ridiculous.

"Jon," Daisy called, her voice thready.

His upset snuffed out, leaving just glowing coals. "Yes, sorry," he said, and hurried to catch up with her, joining them in the teetering slow descent into the archives.

* * *

If Jon got into a habit of pacing around the top floors of the Institute, that was no one's business but his.

And his business was such: Martin was always dressed entirely in a monochrome palette of blues: soft loamy seafoam, a cobalt so sharp it stung the eyes a bit, a desaturated royal blue that looked almost ghostly, and sapphire cufflinks.

There wasn't an artistic bone in Jon's body, no articulation of beauty that didn't come from recitation of words written by more talented people than him, _ but _ Jon knew Martin looked like someone had taken a very lovely line sketch and utterly ruined it with the wrong colors.

This was why Jon found himself in his office with the door closed and a magazine taken from the waiting area upstairs on his desk, spread open covering his notes on Ny-Ålesund. He stared imperiously at the pages, reading the article closely and looked at the helpful visual aids.

His chair nudged slightly as Daisy quit propping up the wall and leaned over his back. It was purposeful, he thought, her little way of reminding him she was there. "What are you glowerin' at?"

There was little point in trying to hide the magazine, so he didn't bother. And on some level, after their heart-to-heart in the coffin, being embarrassed over this seemed very trite. "This theory of seasonal colors as they apply to people."

"Right," she said, and rested her elbow on his shoulder as she read along. "Think you're pretty solidly a winter."

"I-- oh, really?" He looked at the circle of clothing listed around the helpful snowflake-y typeface that read _ So You're A Winter… _ and nodded. "Fair enough. What are you?"

"Hm." She tapped her finger on one of the circle charts. "Summer, I think. Don't much bother with it though."

"Right, right." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "And… maybe you could enlighten me. Autumn and spring seem to be very similar to me, but the delineation seems to be based on whether you have dark hair or light hair. But it doesn't say what if… neither."

"What's neither?"

Jon scowled. He was fairly sure Daisy knew _ exactly _ what he meant. "Sort of… inbetween. Ginger hair." Rusted brown that turned golden in sunlight.

"Oh, Martin's an autumn. He's sort of dark gingery." She pointed helpfully at the pertinent section of the page.

"Yes, thank you," Jon said, a little harsh, but Daisy just let out a huff of laughter and stepped back, off him. Shutting the magazine, Jon tossed it aside. "Now, if we could get back to work."

"Sure, Sims," she said, and went back to propping up the wall as he worked, a gentle sentinel in the corner of his vision.

The culmination of this was the next time Jon 'accidentally' ran into Martin, there was a blue-silver hoop curled around the outer edge of Martin's ear and his shoes were severe oxfords, and set into his jacket were very fine blue pinstripes. On someone else, it would've looked expensive and chic.

On Martin, well. Jon crossed into his path, and when Martin shot him an aggrieved look and tried to step around, Jon matched him, nearly bumping into him.

"Those colors look dreadful on you," Jon said as he stepped into Martin's path for the fourth time.

That, at least, got Martin to stop trying to escape, to rock back on his heels. "Excuse me?" He was looking _ at _ Jon, finally actually meeting his eyes full on, and Jon felt like a flash fire was washing through him.

Having Martin's undivided attention for the first time in literally months felt like a nicotine hit. Jon gestured to Martin's clothes. "All these blues and cool tones. It's all very well coordinated, but doesn't suit you at all."

Martin's mouth worked for a moment. Open, close, drawn into a deep frown. He glared up at the ceiling, as if some answer were written up there. Then he met Jon's eyes again. "Since _ when _ do you- you _ notice _ what I'm wearing?"

Jon waved a hand at Martin. "Since this. Not enough for Peter Lukas to have his fishhooks in you, he's got to dress you in the family colors?"

That didn't land well. Martin's mouth twisted. "What do you care?"

Okay, Jon deflated a little. There was a time when he could do this, prod at Martin, and he'd get a nice snippy reply, not… something that sounded like a genuine hurt. He was fucking this up. "I read an article about it, and Daisy says you're an autumn. You know," he swallowed against something like panic in his throat. "Warm tones, like ochre and forest green and paprika, which to be fair you _ used to _ \--"

Shaking his head, Martin stopped trying to walk around Jon and turned on his heel, stalking back the way he came.

Jon didn't even try to follow him, simply pressed his hands to his face and waited for the drowning wave of embarrassment to pass.

* * *

"So it didn't go well, I take it," Daisy said.

Jon was going through the document storage room, which was frankly a misnomer; over the years, it'd gotten a fairly comfortable bed, and armoire where everyone on the team tended to keep a few changes of clothes, and a little mirror and changing screen. So it was the archive team's shared bedroom, for whoever was pulling a late nighter.

He had the armoire open, searching through the drawers. Martin _ must've _ left something behind, he had to. His favorite tea mug was still sitting by the kettle in the bullpen, he didn't take the time to fully erase the discarded remnants of himself everywhere.

It was difficult to find anything, though. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but how many scarves does Basira need?" Jon asked as he put aside the seventh one he'd found. There were so many of them, they overflowed from her assigned clothes drawer and were smushed into the corners of everyone else's as well.

"About a fifth as many as she owns. She likes the patterns." Daisy crossed her arms. "Makes her real easy to buy for, come birthdays."

"When's her next one? I'll buy her one of those vacuum seal bags."

"So it didn't go well?"

"No. I…" Jon grimaced. "I rather made a mess of the whole thing. Too harsh. In a way that I think he would have enjoyed before." He unearthed another long, lovely scarf with a floral pattern one might see on fine china. He sighed and started to fold it neatly. "Instead of having a go at me, he just got upset."

"You wanted him to have a go at you?"

"Yes, of course." He looked up at her, the slightly confused set to her brows. "I… grew accustomed to that. To Martin pushing back. Sometimes I… provoked it. I felt like it was this shared thing between us." Jon put the folded scarf with the rest and resumed his search. "Seems an awful long time ago."

"That's because it _ was, _ idiot," Daisy said coldly. "Nine _ months." _

Shutting his eyes, Jon rested his forehead on the solid wood of the armoire. "Right. I keep forgetting to, ha, to tack on an extra six to everything."

Daisy let out a low noise. "I get it. Me too."

"Yes. Yes, you lost even more time than I did."

"Sort of. I was awake for all mine. Problem's opposite of yours. Feels like I've been gone… much longer."

Straightening, Jon met her eyes. "I'm sorry. Here I am, going on about all this, and…"

"Oh, leave off. As if your dramatics aren't the only source of entertainment around here." She sighed. "I'm so behind on the Archers, I don't even know how to catch up at this point."

Jon had no idea what to say to that and simply made a sympathetic noise.

"What are you looking for?"

"Ah. Well, I assumed Martin left something behind when he left. But I can't find anything."

Stepping further into the room, Daisy opened a filing cabinet and took out a neatly rolled bundle of fabric. When Jon took it and shook it out, he recognized it immediately. It was a lightweight jumper with a wide boatneck. Vividly, Jon could recall Martin in it, with a nice button-down underneath, the sleeves of both pushed up as he worked at his desk.

It was such a mundane thing, but still his fingers curled tight in the material. Swallowing, he said, "Thank you, Daisy. I was thinking I would… do something with it."

"Wearing it around would be quite the statement," she opined wryly.

"What? No, that'd-- That'd be _ very _ forward. Perhaps I'll leave it in his office, if I can figure out which he's working in this week?"

Before Daisy could impart her deep wisdom on his idea, Basira appeared in the doorway and gave the frame two stern knocks. "Hey. Exercises."

Rolling her head slowly to look behind, Daisy sighed. "Yeah, comin'." She fixed Jon with another sharp look. "Might want to try 'forward.' You've got competition."

Then, she followed Basira, and left Jon to roll that thought around his head like an errant marble. Competition. He hadn't thought of Lukas as _ competition. _ Was he? Sure, he had his grip on Martin, but it wasn't…

God, it was like that, wasn't it? Shit. That was how Jon thought of it, that while he'd been asleep, someone had come in and _ taken _ Martin. It was reductive and honestly excused Martin too much for taking whatever deal Lukas was offering him, but the pang that struck Jon at the thought was as complete as a bell ring.

He leaned his shoulder against the armoire and looked down at the jumper. It was terribly soft in his hands, washed and worn so long the weave had begun to fray just enough to leave it with a halo of fiber that was silky soft to the touch.

Jon took a deep breath, then frowned. Glancing at the door, he checked no one was nearby before lifting the fabric to his nose. Amid the lambswool was the lingering scent of dark tea and aldehydic florals and green amber. He recognized it immediately.

Folding the jumper, he took it with him, his mind full of a hopeless blinding smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is gonna get super explicit and i'm ready for some Fun Times
> 
> also shout out to my pal Tree who mocked my fixation of perfumes/scents and shout out to me for fucking falling for it hook link and sinker and going on a rant about what kind of EDP Martin would use
> 
> i'm so fucking on brand all the time, i'm sorry. at least i haven't ranted about what would suit jon well????
> 
> btw this isn't gonna be a desolation thing, i just hit a metaphor i Really Liked and it involves fire


	2. the art of breaking fishhooks

The mirror was fogged as Martin puttered around, getting ready for the day. Rubbing his hair vigorously with a towel wasn't doing as much as he'd like; it really was getting too long, and he needed a cut. But he couldn't very well go out to the barber, could he?

And the thought of walking into a business with people chattering and filling the air with noise made something anxious turn in his stomach.

Pants and trousers on, Martin swiped his palm across the mirror to clear a space to see.

Behind him, through the doorway, he had an unannounced visitor sitting on the corner of his bed.

"Peter!" Martin spun, bracing himself on the sink as he fumbled for the towel he'd _ just _ hung up. "What the hell are you doing!"

Peter was, at least, not looking at Martin, as he was wont. His eyes cast with interest over everything else in sight, taking in the empty office that Martin had turned into his home. "Checking in. Aren't you always complaining that I'm not available when you need me?"

"That doesn't mean--" Martin slung the towel around his neck, letting it hang over his chest. It wasn't that he was ashamed of or hiding the curved scars that framed his chest. It just really wasn't any of Peter's business. Having an avatar of the Lonely just _ in his bedroom _ was nerve-wracking. "What do you actually want, Peter? I'm trying to get ready."

"A bit about that actually," Peter said, mild as a sunrise. "How is that coming? Getting ready."

Oh, of course. Keeping his gaze low, Martin picked out a shirt, steel-blue and smoother than anything he would have owned a year ago. The herringbone weave had those little chevrons running along the length of it, all very fashionable. He traced one stripe of them with his thumb before buttoning up.

"I'm doing my utmost, but sometimes Jon is just stalking around upstairs. I can't _ actually _ stay in my office at all hours." He exhaled hard. "Can't subsistd solely on the lonely dew of morning."

Peter nodded gravely. "Not yet, at least. Is he bothering you?"

Oh, yes, Jon was definitely bothering him. But Martin knew what it meant when he asked if someone was _ bothering _ Martin. He'd gotten into the habit of never referring to any member of the Institute by name, lest he accidentally put them on Peter's radar.

"I'm handling it," Martin snapped. "And besides, wouldn't Elias be cross if you messed with him?"

"Oh. Probably." It sounded like the idea hadn't occurred to Peter until just now. Christ. "I'm only trying to help. We're in this together."

"Sure." Martin slid a tie around his neck and started looping it into a half-windsor, watching his reflection in the mirror.

Did it not suit him? Martin never felt truly comfortable in his new wardrobe, but had honestly chalked that up to the fact he didn't come from money and everything felt so fine on him. As he peered at himself, he wondered if there was something to what Jon was saying. All the blues and greys, they sort of washed him out.

The bed creaked as Peter stood up. "I'll probably have something in your inbox later today. Give it a read." He walked closer, behind Martin. "Oh, that's a nice one. I might have something for that." He made a show of patting his pockets before extricating something small and shining between his fingers.

It was a silver tie pin with a small blue stone set in it.

Martin took it, and Peter smiled, looking at Martin's reflection rather than at him properly.

Anything to get rid of him. Swallowing his sigh, Martin fixed the pin to his tie. "Anything else, Mr. Lukas?"

"Oh, I'm 'Mr. Lukas' again. Forgive my encroachment." That should have been that, but Peter paused, and looked down at Martin with a perturbed expression. Which was in of itself strange, for Peter to actually make eye contact with any part of another human. Sometimes, Martin almost admired his candor, the little ways he made his lack of direct regard seem natural.

But now, Peter frowned and reached out to pull on a curl of Martin's hair. "Getting long, there."

"Uh," Martin said, stunned.

"Might have something for that." He blinked, breaking contact and turning away. "I have a meeting to see to. Keep the ship sailing in my stead."

"Don't I always," Martin muttered, and watched the man turn to grey mist and vanish, leaving just a falling plume of fog that rolled out over the floor and dissipated to nothing.

He waited a solid five seconds for safety, then rolled his eyes as hard as he could. "Arsehole."

* * *

It was the dead ends Jon hated the most. He could handle a long trail of breadcrumbs, as long as he had forward momentum. Hell, the barest trail had led him on his trek around the northern hemisphere and New Zealand last year, following fading footprints in a windy desert.

Now, after Ny-Ålesund and Dr. Dominguez, he was stuck again.

Sitting on the floor in the Archives was meditative. His ear was pressed to a metaphysical door, waiting for a hint of where to go next. The Dark's ritual collapsed in on itself with no interference from Gertrude. That felt important. But where was the next step?

Jon sighed and rolled his shoulders.

He needed more information about Gertrude's work. What she'd been thinking with Ny-Ålesund. When he thought specifically about that, about her records, he did feel a pull. But not towards the shelves stacked high around him.

Leveraging himself to his feet, Jon followed the low hum in the back of his mind, how it drew him along.

The way upstairs was familiar by now, even the places where the railing of the staircase was imperfect or dented a perfect sense memory under his fingers as he followed it up. The grand stairway took him all the way to the top floor.

Up here was quiet. It'd been quite some time since Jon had seen anyone but Martin up here; the entire floor of offices seemed to be commandeered for Martin alone. It fit in perfectly with the other restructuring efforts around the Institute. The miasma of the Lonely was seeping into the walls.

Elias' office wasn't locked, which seemed like a strange oversight until Jon let himself in. On the desk was a computer, and the monitor was still illuminated.

So Martin was working out of this office. It was hard to keep track of him; he changed locations twice or thrice a week. But sometimes, it seemed, he returned to the most obvious place.

Martin wasn't currently here, so Jon showed himself to the desk, sitting himself on the floor again and trying the various drawers. Spare writing implements and supplies were readily available in the top drawers. The larger ones underneath were securely locked.

Both Melanie and Daisy had broken in here before. It didn't sound difficult. Taking out a pocket knife, Jon considered the closest lock. There were some marks of wear on it, so perhaps it was the one Melanie had broken into, back when she was retrieving evidence about Elias.

He was still working to try and fit the tip of his knife into the keyhole when the door opened. Jon froze, unsure if he should hide or something? But there was only one person it could be, so.

Footsteps approached, and Jon realized how startling this could be _ just _ as Martin came into view. Before Jon could say anything, Martin let out a yelp and staggered away, dropping something heavy and metallic. _ "Jon, what the fuck are you oh my god." _ Martin bent at the waist, hand on his chest, taking gulps of air.

"Sorry, I should have said, uh, anything." Shifting onto his knees, he shuffled away from the desk and picked up what Martin had dropped. A heavy thermos. "Oh, good, it, ah, it didn't spill."

Martin continued to just breathe for a few seconds before he straightened. "What are you _ doing?" _ he asked, sounding more than a little angry.

"Breaking into Elias' desk to see if I can find the statements he liberated from me," Jon explained frankly, standing and putting the thermos on the desk. Then, he unscrewed the lid and examined it. "Are you drinking coffee?"

"I-- I didn't know you were _ back _ yet," Martin said tightly.

"You only drink coffee when I'm away?"

_ "Jon." _ He slipped his hands under his glasses to rub his eyes. "You can't be here. You…" He looked at Jon, and his anger slipped like an ice cube from his grip. "What are you wearing?"

Jon looked down at himself and felt a hot thrill in his spine. "A jumper. It's always a little cold up here, I find."

"That's--" Martin reached out and caught the hem in his fingers. "That's mine!"

"Is it?" Jon couldn't entirely keep the mean grin off his face. "Someone abandoned it down in the basement."

"I didn't _ abandon _ \- what are you going on about?"

"Oh, you're coming back for them then?"

It was a weird _ delight _ to watch Martin shut his eyes and visibly count to ten. Anything was better than Martin ignoring him or trying to waylay him. Seeing him incensed made Jon's fingers curl.

"Please," Martin said. "Get the files and go. You're going to get me in trouble."

Jon tipped his head to the side. "Will I? I thought this was a matter of you being _ prepared _ for whatever the grand scheme is." Still, he circled the desk again and dropped back down to attack the drawer lock. "The Dark Ritual was strange. Gertrude didn't interfere with it, but the acolytes were _ convinced _ she had. That she was the reason it failed."

Martin hummed something and took his seat, pulling the keyboard over to start working.

Sitting on the floor by him, Jon kept shooting looks up at Martin. He was losing that attention.

With Martin's head turned just so away, Jon could see that his hair had been pulled back into a low-slung ponytail, taming the tangle of loose copper curls into a dark indigo ribbon. It was tied into a proper bow, ornate and dandy, and Jon reached up to catch one hanging end of it, and _ pulled. _

The long ribbon was already fluttering down by the time Jon's brain caught up with what his hand was fucking doing, and Martin spun, eyes wide.

"What?" Martin managed.

Jon sprang back to his feet, the ribbon clenched in his fist. "I-- I-- I don't know why I did that, that was a-- a taken liberty, I'm so sorry." He folded the strip of soft fabric over twice, very neatly, and rested it on the desk.

Martin just… gawked at him, stunned. At least he didn't seem upset. But maybe that would come once the surprise left him.

"I am going to go," Jon said. "I will, I'll come back when you're not here, or I'll send Melanie to pick the locks, but I'll go. I don't know what came over me, I just saw it and--" He waved a hand through the air. "I'll go."

"Okay," Martin said quietly. One curl rested against his cheek.

Jon's fingers twitched. "Sorry."

When he happened to glance back over his shoulder on his way out the door, Martin was staring after him. He looked concerned.

Which, well. Fair enough.

* * *

Jon threw himself into his work, trying to locate more of Gertrude's tapes through sheer blunt force searching through the Archive. He read seven statements and slept about as many hours in a three day period. He didn't see Martin at all.

It was a mess. _ He _ was a mess. He felt hot like a glowing knife. And he'd been an arse to Martin again.

"I've really got to stop doing that," Jon muttered.

Daisy looked up from where she was sat in the corner, doing leg exercises. "Should I guess?"

"Please don't," Jon requested softly. "I may need to go out."

"Out?" She braced her hands under herself and lifted up, balanced on her heels. Jon couldn't even do that now, and he'd not spent eight months in a coffin.

_ Six months, though, _ he reminded himself again.

"Yes. I need to… make a purchase."

"Use Amazon," Daisy said. "Stay put, or Basira'll have your head when she's back."

"No, this is…" He rose, and picked up his jacket, drew it on slowly. "Important."

"Another lead?" She settled back flat, then drew her legs in close. With a quick fling, she came to her feet, staggering only a half-step before she balanced.

Jon applauded. "Well done."

"Don't need your sass." Shaking out her arms, she pulled one across her chest and held it to stretch. "Where are we going?"

"I'm going."

"No. _ We're _ going, or I will call Basira before you make it through the door."

"I had no idea she was my warden now," Jon said bitterly. "Fine. Hopefully it won't be far."

For Daisy's sake at least, he tried to keep them close to the Institute. Chelsea was a little too upscale for what he was looking for, so they headed a little further north, to shops with chalkboard signs and flag stickers on the doors. Jon picked one at random, and led them both into some unholy combination consignment shop-antique store with the right mood lighting.

Daisy followed three steps behind Jon the whole way, and he _ did _ feel safer with her there. While he looked through the lot booths at each collection of items for sale, she picked at the booths to his immediate left.

"Would be easier if I knew what we're looking for. A rogue Leitner? Some artefact with teeth to it?" She picked up a jar filled with ornate shirt buttons, examining its contents.

"No. A gift." He glanced at her, and considered. "Daisy."

"Hn."

"When you… tie your hair back, what do you use?"

"Rubber bands. Big bag of elastics." She smirked. "Once, a ziptie, but those were dire circumstances."

Very utilitarian. "What about when you're… do you ever use something more elaborate, maybe before a-- a date?"

"Leave my hair down on dates, mostly," she said. "Why on earth are you looking for a hair tie? Thinking of growin' yours out?"

He sighed with great pain and consternation. "I made a complete arse of myself and I'm trying to make recompense."

Her eyes were cool and heavy on his. "Tell me."

"This stays between you and I," Jon said. "Swear to me."

Daisy flipped her wrist lazily at him. It would have to do.

Pausing at a booth with an entire chest that was filled to bursting with everything from costume jewelry to honestly decent pieces, Jon started examining everything as he haltingly relayed to Daisy his disastrous visit to Martin's office, and his bout of madness with the ribbon.

Midway through, Daisy covered her eyes, face pinched.

"I had no idea you were the jealous type, Sims," she said when he finished. "I especially didn't know you were capable of that _ degree _ of jealousy."

He frowned at her, and held up some sort of glass pin to the light. "Where are you getting _ that _ from the story?"

"Patently obvious," she said brusquely. "You saw Martin wearing another man's gift and you yanked it out of his hair."

Jon let out a hard exhale. "I didn't _ yank _ , it was a ribbon, it slid loose!"

"It's a very primary school reaction." She crossed her arms and stared severely at the pin. "Put that away. You've no idea what you're doing."

"I've gotten someone a gift before. Georgie used to like those picks and combs with the ornate designs. She'd just slide them into her hair and leave them. It was very nice."

"Martin's hair is thick, but not like natural hair. You're looking at the wrong things." Her hip bumped into his as she stepped in closer, examining the selection. "You want a clasp, with the clawed bits that come together."

"Right, obviously," Jon said, sifting through things. "And I wasn't _ jealous." _

"It's the grey hair," Daisy said. "Everyone thinks you're so bloody mature because of a few streaks of silver."

"I have a very world-weary temperament," Jon said defensively.

"Even you, Sims, I can't believe you pulled his hair loose." She picked out something with a hinge that clicked nicely, before tossing it back into the pile. "No good. He's wearing all blue nowadays, right?"

Glowering, Jon hummed an affirmation. "But lets not. I was thinking something dark, that'll stand out."

"You're a piece of work. Keep looking here." She moved onto another booth, keeping Jon in sight but locating another collection of jewelry to search through.

In the end, Jon found it just sitting on a miniature piano in a corner. When he found it, he showed it to Daisy for approval. She tested it for him, unlashing her hair from her severe ponytail to test the tension of the clasp. It hung secure.

On their way out, Daisy hooked her arm into Jon's and pulled him to a stop. He stiffened, crouching slightly and looking around. "What? What is it?"

"Nothing dangerous," Daisy said. They were stood next to a clothes rack. She sorted through it. "I'll give you credit, you've been dressing better than before. I still remember you in that hideous shirt you got in America, and you kept wearing it for weeks."

Jon looked down at himself. "Basira got me this actually."

Pausing, Daisy stared at him with some hybrid of pity and exasperation in her eyes. "Christ, Sims." She pulled something off the hanger and shoved it at him: a jacket. It was leather, but worn, old and almost extravagantly soft to the touch. It was the kind of jacket that simply couldn't be bought new, aged by the years and by decent owners.

"I couldn't," Jon said, petting the arm of the jacket covetously.

"Can't you?" Daisy challenged.

He did. He couldn't remember the last time his life slowed down enough for him to wear anything he'd actually picked out. Or, now, that a friend picked out for him.

God, was Daisy a friend? That was a relief. They'd come a long way from interrogations at gunpoint. Objectively speaking, it was very impressive.

He made his purchases, and they both headed back to the Institute.

* * *

Sometimes finding Martin was difficult. Even when Jon tried to reach for the knowledge, to locate the bolthole Martin was using this week, he couldn't grasp it. It slipped out of his grip, like… smoke. Fog. Any number of amorphous forms that concealed Martin from him.

It never lasted long. Jon started to assume that was when Peter Lukas was around, his presence like a shroud thrown over Martin.

When it happened, Jon couldn't concentrate through the wrongness. He knew it was happening, and he seethed. The deep-set desire to See Martin and know he was safe was like a fever he just had to learn to live with.

It happened around the end of the week, a metaphysical mist falling over the top of the building like a veil. When Jon felt it, he grabbed his jacket and headed upstairs.

The unfortunate fact of the matter was Jon didn't know what he'd do if he actually located Peter Lukas. There was no plan, beyond 'compel him to explain his plans' and 'get him to release Martin.' It was wholly inadequate; what if Lukas countered in any way? what if he brought down the full power of the Lonely on the Institute? what if he took it out on Martin?

So, Jon stalked around the top floor, shivering as the temperature seemed to slowly drop.

He should've stayed down in his basement and waited. But there was always this lingering fear, that someday the Lonely would fall over them and wouldn't release again. That he'd truly lose Martin. Which was unacceptable.

That wasn't today, at least. The oppressive atmosphere faded after only twenty minutes or so. As it dissipated, everything seemed to flood with saturation, colors returning from a subtle draining.

Jon inhaled deeply, and his head jerked to the right. He turned, and hurried that way, a compass needle swinging north.

In the very furthest corner of the network of halls and offices, Martin stood by himself, his back resting heavily against the wall, his arms folded around himself.

Jon broke out into a brisk jog, closing the distance. "Martin. Are you alright?"

Martin's head snapped up, and he gasped. _ "Jon, _ what are you-- you can't be here! We've talked about this!" His eyes cut up and down the corridor, clearly nervous. "Go back downstairs, right now, you have to--"

"He's gone. I can _ feel _ he's gone," Jon said, a sneer taking over his face momentarily. "What did he do to you? You look wrecked."

"No," Martin said, voice still pitched low like he expected someone might hear. "You've got it all wrong. He's-- he's not my, my captor or torturer, okay? This is what I signed up for."

"How often are we told that in these unhallowed walls," Jon pointed out. "That we _ signed up _ for this situation we're stuck in."

A grimace and smile warred for control of Martin's face before he ducked his head. "Yeah, well. That's life." Sniffing loudly, he shook himself a little and looked at Jon. "You still need to go."

"No, I-- I'm here _ for _ something," Jon cut in quickly. "Not just to, you know. Damn the name of Lukas and all that."

"Okay. Something that couldn't be emailed?"

Jon had abstained from emailing Martin since he learned on the situation with Lukas, and he was proud of that. "Actually, yes. An… apology." When Martin's lips parted, eyes widening, Jon winced. "You don't have to act quite so shocked."

"Well…" Martin shrugged. "I know you. You don't really _ apologize _ often. Just get all pinched and guilty, then try to do better. I get it."

"Fine. But this time, I'm." He tucked his hand into the pocket of his new (old) jacket. "I wanted to make up for whatever possessed me before to-- do that."

A very faint smile curled Martin's lips. "Oh. If you like. I wrote the whole thing off as Archivist weirdness."

The funny thing was Jon didn't think it was that, the Archivist Weirdness, not this time. But telling Martin as much would take admitting the green-eyed thing that he was trying to keep under control. No, instead, he took out the clasp. "This is for you."

It was a very dark resin material, shining red-amber in the light, heavy in the palm. The loops and carved angles of it brought to mind the branches of a tree, bending around to form the combs. Jon had cleaned it thoroughly since picking it out, and it had a satiny matte finish to it.

Martin stared at it for a moment, hand reaching out and hovering over it. "I… Jon, I can't take this."

"You can," Jon told him. Then, "Please."

"You make everything so much harder," Martin said. There was something pained in his face, the way his brows drew together, the lines around his eyes. "Do you realize that? Do you _ care?" _

Jon nodded with absolute certainty. "I care a great deal."

"That's not--" Martin tutted, shaking his head. "Give me the damn thing. You need to go."

As he took it, Martin worked the hinge between his fingers a few times, watching the way the tines interlaced. With another small headshake, he muttered, "I should just get it cut, shouldn't I."

"I like it," Jon said. "Gives it, ah. Shape, maybe?"

"It's a pain to handle, though," Martin said. His arms lifted, pulling his hair back, coaxing most of it into his hand. He let the clasp bite down at the nape of his neck, holding it together, but for a few errant waves that refused to be tamed and slipped out to frame his face. He moved his head around for a moment, testing the grip. "Okay. That's… nice. Thank you."

"It suits you," Jon said, something in his chest burning at the sight.

As he met Jon's eyes again, Martin saw something there, and seemed to figure it out before Jon even did. Before he knew what he was going to do.

"Jon," Martin breathed, a faint warning, before Jon took the last two steps separating them. A hand came up to rest on Jon's chest, and for a delirious moment, he thought Martin could just shatter him. Just a push, and he'd fall back and hit the floor and come apart into a million sharp pebbled pieces of glass.

Jon gave him two seconds to do that, then bent to press his mouth to Martin's. His lips were soft, parted around a sharp gasp.

He'd thought, maybe, it would finally put out the fire in his ribcage. Instead, it caught even more intensely, warmth flooding his body, a containment broken and cinders casting all over his skin, drawing a hot flush up everywhere.

Jon caught the collar of Martin's jacket and gripped it tightly as his feet slid, moving to try to occupy the same space Martin was. He tilted his mouth to feel how their lips moved together, and judged it _ very _ good. He was by no means an expert in these things, but the sharp hot ache in him was demonstrative enough, even for him.

Martin's hands stroked Jon's arm, gripping the sleeves of his jacket tightly. A deep, intent noise wrenched out of his throat like a vice, and Jon swallowed it, leaning further in until Martin's head gently bumped into the wall. He decided to taste Martin's lower lip, adding to his meticulous cataloging of this moment.

Martin turned his head, just enough to break the kiss, breathing hard against Jon's jaw. "Holy shit," he said, stunned.

In total agreement, Jon pressed his lips to Martin's cheek. Martin shuddered.

"Jon," he said, voice locked tight. "Jon, go."

"Martin," Jon started.

"You _ have _ to go," Martin told him, squeezing his eyes shut. Still, Martin held onto Jon's arm for a few more seconds before seeming to realize he had to release him. _ "Go." _

"I'll come back," Jon said. Threatened. Promised.

Martin nudged him, and Jon backed off. For a moment, he thought he'd fall, the strength leaving his legs. But Martin _ looked _ at him, eyes wide and bright and it felt like the first time anyone had ever looked at Jon in his life.

He walked backwards a few paces, holding Martin's gaze, taking in the way his chest moved with the force of each of his breaths, the flush in his cheeks.

Then, he turned the corner, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon is a man of action. all his actions are disastrous but still.
> 
> .... how obvious is it that daisy/jon is my favorite friendship in the show.


	3. necessary acts of emnity

Martin managed to avoid meeting his own gaze in the mirror for a while, working through his morning routine and even finishing shaving without the eye contact.

He wasn't certain why that was so vital, not sure what he was afraid of seeing in his eyes in the mirror. But as he patted his face dry, he slipped up, caught in the grasp of his reflection.

As he watched, his pupils contracted to very narrow points. The hazely green of his eyes seemed enormous, like a kitschy photo filter gone wrong, and Martin exhaled slowly, his breath hitching.

For reasons unknown, Martin expected to look different. He thought that people would know _ looking _ at him that Jon kissed him, that it'd leave some visible brand, like smeared lipstick or _ something. _

But. No one looked at Martin anymore. No one would see him and know anything about him.

A cold metallic fist gripped his spine. Did it really happen then? Did it happen in a way that mattered? Martin rested his forehead against the mirror and shut his eyes, trying to calm the nausea and his racing heart.

Jon's mouth had been the warmest thing Martin had felt in months. Chapped lips and a desperation that felt like it would drown Martin if he hadn't been careful. Though, god, there was nothing _ careful _ about kissing Jon. He couldn't have invented it in his mind, because Jon did not kiss like he'd, well, he'd sometimes daydreamed about: dignified and confident, if reserved. No, Jon kissed like a glass about to spill, imminent disaster and shuddering fear.

With his eyes closed, Martin remembered the nervous swipe of Jon's tongue against his lower lip. He'd just tasted warm. And smelled like-- not the terrible cigarettes that Jon surreptitiously kept on him, but that jacket of his had this lingering scent as if old cigars had broken apart and dissolved in the pockets, tobacco and sweetness like smoked honey.

Martin felt a chill, and turned in time to see Peter build himself from the way the light refracted strangely through the fog. Shadow built colors, and Peter appeared in the same place as before, sat on the corner of the bed.

"We've talked about this," Martin said coldly as soon as Peter seemed mostly corporeal. "I would think you of all people would understand the importance of privacy."

"I also understand your importance, Martin," Peter said evenly as he finished appearing, his hands clasped together and resting between his knees. "What kind of mentor would I be if I didn't help you?"

Mentor. Martin was glad Peter rarely looked at him, because he made a face at that.

"You could help me by not intruding on my space, and maybe finally giving me a clue of what our plan actually is."

"No point." Peter stood. "You're not ready for it anyway. In fact, I would say you're _ less _ prepared today than last I saw you. I thought our last session had aided your development. Now." He gestured expansively in Martin's vague direction.

The last session. Martin's face flushed with quick anxiety as he remembered the way the office had filled with fog until all he could taste was the damp air, and then not even that as his senses slipped into a disconnected haze.

Then, there was Jon, who unknowingly shattered the lingering effects and flooded Martin with warm and presence and drove the fog out.

When Martin didn't reply, Peter stepped in slowly. "Something interfered? Someone?"

Pursing his lips, Martin ducked his head and tried to finish getting ready. He finished dressing, clasped his hair back with the resin claw Jon had given him, and did up his tie.

"Please don't think I'm not sympathetic to what you're doing, Martin," Peter said as Martin quickly sprayed on his EDP and reached for his jacket. Maybe if he just finished getting ready, he could leave and ignore Peter. That'd be very _ lonely _ of him, right? "Because I am. You've made incredible progress in a very short amount of time. It took me many years before my affinity for our god truly showed itself.

"However," he went on, and Martin felt him move in right behind. Finally, Martin glanced in the mirror again, looking at Peter over his shoulder. Reflections were acceptable; Peter met his eyes with a weary smile. It might've been kind if it reached his eyes. "We don't have years."

"I am doing the best I can given the circumstances," Martin said.

"I know you are. But maybe I'm not, and that's unfair to you." His hands fell heavy as breezeblocks onto Martin's shoulders. "I have something that will help."

Before Martin could navigate the safe thing to say to that, Peter lifted his hands and cupped them over Martin's eyes, his grip pulling Martin flush with Peter's chest.

There had been contact between them before, but never so much, never something as expressive as Peter's hands on Martin's skin. It startled him into stillness, just feeling Peter's cool skin against his brow and his eyelids.

It was so cool, like a silk blindfold before it'd been warmed by a body. A shiver forced its way loose down Martin's spine, and he reached up to grab Peter's wrists. More coolness. It was suffusing outward into his body.

"Peter," Martin started haltingly.

"Shh, shh. Just relax. Let me help."

The contact didn't last very long, but time felt slow as seconds ticked by. It took so long for Peter's hands to release him, and Martin swayed hard as the support suddenly vanished.

He landed on his palms on the sink, shuddering through some kind of aftershocks.

"There," Peter said airly. "See how that does you. I'll be around to check on you later."

He was gone, and Martin looked up at himself.

The image of himself in the mirror seemed fainter. Or, no, _ everything _ was fainter. The colors leeched a little from everything around him. A corona that dulled everything on the edges of his vision.

Martin squeezed his eyes shut, but when he looked again, the effect remained.

Meeting his own gaze, his breath caught. Oh.

* * *

Jon was handling things. He might not have been handling them very _ well _ , but he didn't think there was a guidebook for these sorts of things, no explicit _ right way _ to handle the situation.

For the moment, Jon was looking over statements. A new one from a Herman Gorgoli called incessantly to him, so loud it woke him from his fitful sleep. The interruption hadn't been pleasant, but given the contents of the statement, he was glad for the direction. His thirst for a lead to follow was as endless as a desert.

Gorgoli's statement struck a chord in him. A rare feeling of relief washed over Jon as he finished it. Of course he knew the statement giver had survived at least to come to the Institute to share his story, but coming to the end himself and feeling the emotional residue of what had saved Gorgoli from that endless sprawl lingered with Jon.

It reminded Jon of an idea, and so he had to investigate the idea. Finding old statements, sitting with a recorder and a handful of tapes in his lap, he listened and frowned.

God, he'd been awful to Naomi Herne, hadn't he? It was hard to listen to himself on the tape. Another life, for him.

Basira let herself into the Archives through the trapdoor, letting out a massive yawn.

Upon spotting Jon, she stiffened all over, freezing down to her bones for a solid two seconds before she relaxed. "Jon, what the hell?"

"Good morning, Basira," Jon said, pausing the tape. "Have a decent sleep?"

"What the fuck are you doing up there? Trying to give someone a heart attack?"

Jon happened to be sitting on top of the sliding ladder, one arm looped through the railing as he did his relistening. He looked down at Basira and admitted, "I suppose it can be a shock if you're not quite awake yet."

"Is there a reason you're up there like a unkempt gargoyle, lurking over everything?"

Jon hummed. "Not specifically up here, but I'm following up on a thought I had regarding the Lonely. You recall I expressed the idea of an anchor? Something that acts as a reference point, or a-- a sympathetic connection." He waved towards his office. "Such as the rib I had removed."

Basira folded her arms and leaned back on the shelf opposite Jon, her head tipped up to see him. "Which didn't actually work."

"Not as intended, though whoever placed all the tape recorders on the coffin lid, that _ did _ function as an anchor." He shrugged a shoulder, and set to rewinding the Herne tape, so it would be ready for the next listener. "I made the incorrect assumption that an anchor worked best when it was a part of you. But maybe self-knowledge isn't the most trustworthy knowledge. We are too close to ourselves to see objectively."

"Uh huh," Basira said loudly.

"Right. Even if I chose the wrong anchor, the concept is sound and helped me find the way out of the Buried. What I noticed is the Lonely seems to function similarly." He held up a tape, gesturing with it. "Every case we have of the Lonely-- well, barring case number 0110201, but every other case, the victims survived by remembering a loved one, and letting that memory guide them out in a process very similar to how I used my own anchor."

"Sounds feasible. There's also that one, with the guy in Hackney, with the flood."

Jon nodded along. "Who recalled the memory of his grandfather and clutched a heirloom kukri to survive. Yes, exactly."

"Okay. I get that. Why's it got you all fired up?"

The same thing that seemed to have Jon _ fired up _ all the time lately. His lip curled as he invoked the devil's name. "Peter Lukas."

The sigh Basira let out was so sharp, it almost whistled through her teeth. "Martin's handling him. Martin's actually _ really adamant _ about handling him."

Jon shot her a dully surprised look. "Basira, I'm so proud of you. Really, I am. You're trusting people again, and that's significant progress from, oh, _ yesterday." _

She glared at him. "If Martin's determined to hurl himself onto the spooky grenade, there's nothing you can do. It's logical."

"And that is what you do now, yes? Logic." He returned his attention to his recorder. The tape was nicely rewound. He swapped it out for another tape, hoping for more information.

He heard Basira leave briskly.

Daisy followed soon after, out of the trapdoor.

She didn't startle upon seeing him, just watched him for a moment.

"Come down, already," she said.

"Yes, all right." Putting all the tapes in his jacket pockets, he started his way back down the ladder.

* * *

There was a reason for his perhaps slightly manic fixation on ways to defeat the Lonely. It was just difficult to admit to everyone that his Archivist powers had been giving him a running update on Martin's general location for months now, and now it has abruptly _ stopped. _

Jon couldn't feel Martin at all, and it was terrifying.

For a while, Jon thought this was it, that Peter had finally shown his true colors (blue, corpse blue, lifeless dispassionate blue) and taken Martin away, into the Lonely. Fuck, the _ idea of it _, of Martin wandering around the Institute or through Chelsea, devoid of people, not even a shadow for company, scared Jon so severely he could barely sleep.

Except… missives still came from the head office. More emails and messages. Administrivia was still happening, so Martin was still around.

So why couldn't Jon feel him? It was like the inverse of a phantom limb, and just as troubling.

He tried to look harder, to See Martin, but it never seemed to connect, and just left him hungry and agitated and on one memorable occasion, essentially hung over.

Once, and only once, at three in the morning, when Jon was pacing his office like an emaciated cat, he'd fired off a text to Martin, asking a simple plaintive _ 'where are you?' _

If he'd been rebuffed, if Martin had told him not to bother him, that would have been fine. Excellent, actually. But the text tried to send for a long time before marking with a sad little _ not received _ indicator.

This all had to happen after Jon had momentarily lost his mind and kissed Martin. The timing did gnaw at him. Was Martin avoiding him?

Well, alright, Martin had been avoiding Jon for months now, but his heart hadn't been in it lately. The conscious effort Martin put into remembering not to talk to Jon was gratifying, like this separation was unnatural to them both.

Thinking about Martin, about the kiss, about how Martin's body had felt pressed to Jon's, lead Jon back upstairs, feet moving before he even realized he'd made the decision.

The key wasn't proximity; he still couldn't reach for Martin's location. The same blankness sat where the knowledge should have been.

With the lack of that warm, soft feeling of _ Martin is here _ coating his spatial awareness, Jon was completely shocked to almost walk right into Martin as he rounded a corner.

Relief washed over him, even as he hopped back to avoid slamming into Martin. "God, sorry, I didn't know you were there. I've been looking all over for you. Or, _ looking _ isn't the right term, to be honest, but."

Jon stopped hard because Martin had just… continued walking by, as if Jon weren't there. He carried some folders in his arms, as well as a deeply unsettling expression.

There was something distant and sorrowful in the hang of his head, the faint downturn of his lips.

"Martin," Jon called after, following him.

Martin still didn't reply, didn't even tilt his head, gave _ no sign _ of having even heard.

A stone sank into Jon's stomach. He hurried along to catch up with Martin's quick, even pace, and reached out, grabbing his arm.

Something broke, and Martin let out a cry, spinning around and losing his paperwork in a wave of papers tumbling from his grip. His eyes skipped wildly around for a moment, sliding right over Jon like ice.

Very much like ice, actually. Faced with Martin, Jon could see his eyes. His eyes which had turned a pale, cold blue that pushed a frozen stiletto into his chest, stinging with every beat of his heart.

"Jon?" Martin asked, voice a tremble.

_ "What has he done to you?" _ It was furious and shivering from Jon's lips, laced with his own venom.

Martin's eyelids fluttered at the compulsion. "I don't know. I don't know. It's meant to help. I… think it's like tunnel vision. I haven't seen anyone in a while." His face pinched, like in pain, and he looked up and down the corridor. "I don't even see him coming."

This would be better done not out in the open. Jon took hold of Martin's shoulder and backed him up, towards the first door he saw. It was gloriously unlocked, and dark inside. Martin gave a small sound of protest as he was hustled inside, but the door swung solidly shut behind them.

Jon felt for a wall switch and found nothing. Trying over his head instead, he found a ball chain, and tugged it.

They were in a broom closet. It was a narrow little room that smelled of dust and slightly dodgy electrical.

Blinking slowly a few times, Martin seemed to regain himself. Really, Jon knew he was back when he fixed Jon with a heated glare. "Jon."

"Hi, Martin," Jon said, cheery in the face of that familiar ire. "How've you been? How's _ Peter?" _

"Stop it," Martin snapped. "Do you want to know how Peter's been? _ Concerned. _ He's _ concerned _ about my progress, my-- my what's the opposite of progress? Regression?"

"Oh, really?" Jon affected a perturbed expression. "How unfortunate. Does the Lonely think you less of a tasty bite to eat than before? Awful."

Martin smacked him in the arm. "You-- _ for fuck's sake, Jon, _ you are making everything I'm doing so much harder! Trying to hone a-- a sense of isolation is impossible with you hovering around all the bloody time!"

He smacked Jon again, but it wasn't very hard, so Jon accepted this as his due. "That," he said, with a unkind smile, "is rather the idea."

"You are supposed to be trusting me," Martin reminded him sharply, his voice echoing around the small space. "You, god, you're supposed to be on my side!"

"If being on your side means standing aside while Lukas torments and breaks you, then I'll be your enemy."

"Jon." It was incredible, how many ways Martin could turn the single syllable of his name into so many different emotions. He poured anguish and resignation and a bone-deep frustration into it. The urge to catalog every way Martin could say it was curiously strong. How would it even work, setting up catalyst and result, recording every iteration.

The naked bulb of the light hanging over them was white and brutal. With his cursed eyes and his desaturated bruise of a uniform, Martin seemed like a photo of himself, left out in the sun to bleed out pigment. The icy blue even made his ginger hair seem lighter. The flecked spatter of freckles across his face was to be the darkest color in him. He was a ghost, fading out more and more.

Martin put his hands on Jon, grabbing him by his shirt. Maybe he intended to push Jon away. Maybe he intended to drag Jon closer.

They never found out, as the need to act surged through Jon, conflagration eager to catch on Martin's kindling. He shoved Martin backward, between a metal shelf and an old table.

This _ sound _ knocked from Martin's lungs, a low inhalation that sighed out flushed with desire. He looked at once shocked as it escaped his lips, like he didn't mean to make it. Vulnerable.

Jon bent and kissed him, rediscovered the soft heat of his mouth. The memory of this had been humming through Jon since the first time, and the images overlapped perfectly. The particular way Martin opened his lips as he kissed, the fullness of his lower lip, how his breath felt against Jon's skin.

Good, so he learned that part. Now, Jon wanted more, craved every piece of Martin he could get. He moved them to where they'd rudely left off last time: Martin's head resting against the wall as Jon ran his tongue over that lower lip. He needed more, to taste him, and flicked his tongue in enough to just touch Martin's.

This close, he could feel the shudder that rolled through Martin, feel the vibration of an abortive little moan in his chest. He felt real, solid to the touch in a way he didn't to the eyes.

The dissonance was intense, and Jon worked his hands to Martin's neck blindly as he continued to explore his mouth. He found the pointed collar of his shirt, traced the fine material until his fingertips skated over cool smooth silk.

His nails found the edge of the knot, and Jon tugged the tie down and loose. Martin breathed out hard against his mouth, his own hands lifting. So Jon was quick, threw the offending strip to the floor before Martin could catch him.

More than anything, he wanted to tear all of it off. Take all of the finery and rip it away. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of pounds in Lukas blue, destroyed.

He wanted to find a gap in the armor, to reach in and touch Martin under it all.

All of the desperate desire and fear tangled up, and he poured it all into the kiss. Waistcoat buttons popped as he pulled at them, but the shirt buttons were smaller, harder to manage. Jon fought to get three undone before giving up, slipping his hand around Martin's neck, curls brushing the back of his knuckles.

Keeping everything coherent was becoming a trial. For a moment, Martin just breathed against Jon's mouth, their lips still touching, too preoccupied for _ more _, because Martin was shoving Jon's jacket off his shoulders, fingers twining in the long sleeve underneath.

Their eyes were open, and Jon stared into Martin. Stared, and swore he could see the ice blue shifting, darkening to something more alive.

It could have been just the tone of the light. But if it _ wasn't _…

Incensed, Jon pressed his thumb to Martin's jaw, urging his head up as he stepped in closer, crowding Martin further into the little hollow, hidden place they'd found themselves in. His leg fit between Martin's knees, and he ravenously _ watched _ how Martin's eyes unfocused. "J'n," Martin managed thickly, squeezing Jon's shoulders tightly.

Yes. _ Yes yes yes, _ Jon's blood pounded in his ears. He one-handed Martin's belt open, drinking in everything Martin gave him.

"Oh, fuck," Martin said, tense and breathless, and dug both his hands into Jon's hair. He held on tight, enough to hurt, and Jon pulled eagerly against the grip.

Getting Martin's trousers off seemed like a fantastic idea, but that required Jon actually stepping back, and he felt too magnetized to Martin's body to manage it. Instead, he settled for getting the zip down and pushing his hand in to rub at the front of his pants. Silk as well, which at least would make things easier, Jon thought.

For three seconds, Jon tried to find something to _ grip _ before going "Oh," and turning his hand over and stroking up into wet warmth instead.

The cry out of Martin's mouth was devoid of words, just an astounded moan as his head rocked back against the wall. His lips were parted around sharp gasps of air, red and slick.

Jon kissed him again, cupping the back of his head so he didn't hurt himself against the wall. He felt the way Martin's body shook as Jon dragged slickness up and rubbed at his clit.

When he worked his hand up and under Martin's boxers, touched him again skin-to-skin, Martin bit Jon's lip, groaning, hips hitching up, away, back again in a confused, needy motion. "Oh _ christ, oh, ha--ah," _ he moaned, eyes tight shut.

"Look at me," Jon begged, his fingers sliding easily along blood-hot skin, tucking two up into Martin, making him writhe, pinned by Jon's body. "Please, Martin, _ Martin." _

He watched it happen. The rich flush that spread up Martin's neck and over his cheeks, his uncoordinated rolling movements into Jon's grip, and his _ eyes. _ The blue melted, dried out to leafy greens and flecked amber as he tried to keep focus on Jon's gaze.

Eventually, it was too much. Jon's thumb pressed hard into Martin's clit, and he came, tightening around Jon's fingers. He ducked his head, and Jon kissed his shut eyes, his brow, his temple as he ground the heel of his hand in and drew more and more out of Martin, dragged him over the threshold trembling and a mess.

The come down was slow, their heads resting together as Martin caught his breath. He suspected the way he was pinning Martin against the wall was chiefly responsible for them both not falling to the floor in the wake of it all.

Slowly, Martin braced himself on the metal shelf. Jon had to extricate his hand. It was not a soundless affair, and Martin cursed under his breath as Jon's fingers slipped out and rubbed wetness into his hip. "I… fuck, Jon."

"I've got you," Jon said, and did his best to help get Martin back together. Minus the tie. Minus two buttons that escaped their thread. So much for expensive clothes.

When he stepped back, the separation stung. They'd fit so well together, a practical study in something Jon already knew in his heart. Unfortunately, they couldn't hide in a closet all day.

But then. Then, Martin shyly lifted his eyes to meet Jon's.

And they were warm and alive again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate how much i enjoy writing peter "eldritch PUA" lukas


	4. where the evening splits in half

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings in end notes

Daisy told Jon, "Grab your coat. You're acting squirrely, let's get drunk."

The first point Jon made, as he pulled on his jacket and followed Daisy out the door, was, "It's a completely unfair proposition, considering how difficult it is to get you drunk. This is essentially just you dragging people to the pub to ply them with alcohol until they spill their secrets for your amusement."

The second point Jon made, as they walked side by side down the street to Daisy's preferred local, was, _ "'Squirrely?' _ What the hell does that even mean?"

"Squirrely," Daisy repeated, toying with the 'r's until they rolled like a marble around a bowl. "You've been a pendulum swinging between being avoidant to being a right menace to anyone who looks at you. Whatever's going on with you, it's gettin' worse." She looked aside at him, her elbow brushing his side in a way that could have been accidental if Daisy were not such a deliberate person. "Is it hunger?"

Jon licked his lip, and vividly remembered Martin doing the same. "It is… _ a _ hunger? But not specifically that one."

"You need us to go to dinner instead, Sims?"

"No," Jon said, as they came up to the golden light of their usual. "You may have to buy me a few drinks before I can say."

"Hm, that's not concernin' at all," she hummed, holding the door for him.

There was a rounded corner booth, and Daisy didn't sit too close to Jon, but she put her feet up next to his thigh on the seat. He was long used to the strange tactility they'd inherited together from the Buried. Oddly enough, when you spent an amorphous stretch of torturous time with your hands clasped together in the Forever Deep, it left a mark.

Jon didn't mind.

Three drinks later, Daisy was idly looking at the laminated menu while Jon stared morosely at his own hands. "We should feed you, before you slide under the table. They've got sourdough. Some bread to soak up the liquid bread."

Food. Jon gave a deeply considering noise, nodding along. "Food," he said, helpfully. "It's… very much like food, isn't it."

Daisy sighed, bracing herself for her next words: "What's like food, Jon? Food, I hope. Do you want the haddock and chips? I think I want the haddock and chips."

As he considered the metaphor more thoroughly, the more it seemed _ perfect _ to him. A perfect facsimile of the trouble. "It's like food, Daisy. Or, no! It's like _ cooking." _ Daisy sighed again, but he could tell she was listening. "It's like cooking, I've figured it out. Perhaps I don't feel particularly excited to sit down for a meal, don't feel the desire to eat if I'm on my own. But, I may-- may enjoy handling a knife, that wonderful rocking motion you use to chop herbs. Or whisking. Whisking itself has a satisfying sound to it."

Her eyes flicked up to him over the menu. Good, he had her attention. Jon went on: "I might find enjoyment making food for someone else, right, and if I've gone through all the trouble of rolling pasta and doing the-- making decent ravioli and making a good peppercorn sauce, I might decide to eat the final product, but that's not the _ thing _, you see, it's not the point."

"Sims, can you fuckin' out with whatever you're talking about? You're just making me hungrier."

"I'm talking about sex!" Jon told her, rolling his eyes. "Come on, Daisy."

Her lips pursed as she squinted at him. "I'm… not into you that way, Sims."

"No, _ obviously _," he said, because: obviously. "I admire your strength and your candor and your incredible biceps, of course. But I mean I had sex with Martin."

"Oh," Daisy said, her expression clearing. "Congratulations. Though, sorry, you hadn't before?"

"No," Jon informed her, a little scandalized. "Why would I have had sex with Martin?"

"On account of being, you know, in love and all that," she said idly. "Sorry, I didn't pay much attention back when I wanted to kill you." Her head tilted. "What's all that about cooking?"

Jon thought he'd outlined a very adequate metaphor. Then something struck him, and his mouth twisted into a frown. "It's not a good metaphor at all. You _ have _ to eat, or you die. You don't _ have _ to have sex."

"Is that the trouble you're having? Hang on." Taking a moment, she flagged down one of the few waitstaff and ordered herself fish and chips and Jon some soup in a sourdough bowl.

When she was done, she looked at Jon directly. "What part are you having a meltdown over? Because Martin's a bloke?"

Nose wrinkling, Jon recoiled. "No, of course not. No, I just… habitually do not do any of that. I don't usually, so I'm trying to _ explain _ , because it's the-- the _ components _ of the act that I find compelling. And the person I'm acting with."

"Right," she said, and gave another sigh. Really, so many aggrieved noises? Were they all necessary? "Jon, you realize you don't have to justify yourself to anyone, okay? Not even yourself."

Now that she put it that way, it did seem much simpler than he was giving the situation credit for. He'd spent a not insignificant amount of time grappling with his overall lack of attraction with how much he deeply, ardently appreciated his closet tryst with Martin. Before he did it again (and he would, he was almost certain), it felt important to figure this out.

"I think," Jon said slowly, "I might have an inclination for overcomplicating things."

"No shit," Daisy said, and leaned in to tap her glass to his in agreement. "How's Martin, by the way? Besides a presumably decent shag."

"No need to be flippant," Jon grumbled. "He's…"

A storm cloud passed over Jon, his expression darkening as he thought about _ how Martin was. _ About how he'd been when Jon had last found him, blind to all around him.

Daisy reached out and touched two fingers to his wrist. "Easy. Guessing its not good from the way you're stranglin' that glass."

"I'm going to kill Peter Lukas," Jon told her. "And if he ever touches Martin again, I'll take his hands off."

"Uh huh. In that order?"

"Yes. No. The other way 'round." He looked to her, the expert in such things. "Which way is best?"

"Hands first," Daisy told him kindly. "Otherwise he's already too dead to know about it."

"You're my wisest friend," Jon told her.

"Your wisest friend sees the food comin', and you need something to absorb that alcohol."

"Thank you, Daisy."

"I'm just glad you've found something else to mope about. Another round?"

* * *

The worst part was the waiting.

There was no way to hide the fact that he'd lost even more progress since the last time Peter saw to him. To make matters worse, the weird boon Peter had given Martin, intended to help his struggle with isolation, was gone. Utterly shattered without so much as a trace left behind. Martin even forgot what the veil had felt like, the memory indistinct and dissipating as time passed.

Nothing about this was going right, and Martin was fairly sure it was his fault. All he'd meant to do was keep Peter's eyes on him (though rarely literally) until he knew what the Plan was. Or if the Plan even was more than a ruse Peter was using to draw Martin along.

Now, he had fumbled most of the progress he'd made towards Peter's trust and Jon was…

Jon did not so much as attract danger as he saw a glimpse of it in the distance and race full tilt to collide his body into it.

And Martin was… fine, he was _ haunted _ hourly by the thought of Jon's mouth on his, Jon's _ tongue _ against his, Jon's pleading, Jon's hands. Jon as a composite of a dozen sense memories and Jon as a whole man who wanted him more than the Lonely. All of that.

But as time slipped by and Martin's nervous anticipation for Peter's next visit grew, he was afraid for Jon. He'd accepted by now that Jon left no visible sign on Martin, but Peter would see anyway. He'd _ know. _

The other shoe fell when Martin entered his office, carrying some reports from Artefact Storage he wanted to sort through. In hindsight, he didn't know if he wasn't paying attention or if Peter was drawing a shade over his eyes, but as he put the reports into stacks on the desk, he looked up and saw Peter there, sitting behind the desk, his chin propped up in his hand as he looked directly at Martin.

Martin froze everywhere, a sudden sick adrenaline rush making him nauseous. "Peter," he managed.

"Martin," Peter said, that omnipresent jovial tone still locked into place. He leaned back and grinned. "I'm in your seat!" He stood.

The instruction was plenty clear. Martin circled around, continuing to fidget with the papers. Whatever was going to happen, he could handle it. He would handle it.

Peter stood at his side, watching Martin steadily for a few moments, before he let out a bellow's sigh. "Martin."

"I know," Martin cut in.

"No, Martin. I don't think you do, actually." Peter sighed expansively. "Partly my fault. I've sacrificed many souls to the Lonely, but I've never tried to draw someone into the fold, so to speak. Not properly." His beard made a rustling noise as he rubbed it. "Steering us carefully between keeping you isolated and leaving you vulnerable to corruptive forces has been very difficult, as well as rather against my nature, Martin."

Jon as a _ corruptive force _ was… Martin wanted to laugh until he thought about it seriously for a second. Thought about the closeness of the broom closet and how his world had narrowed down to--

He shuddered, and settled for nodding without saying anything.

Peter's hand came into his view, resting on the desk and drumming his fingers. Martin did his best to keep still. You were supposed to do that around predators, right?

"Martin," Peter sighed. It was honestly a little annoying, how he did that constantly, _ constantly _ said Martin's name like it was some charm he could use against him. "What did the Archivist do this time?"

"I would rather not say," Martin said quietly. "It's private."

"Really? Hm. I didn't know the Archivist had it in him." He drummed his fingers again, a more brisk beat. "I hadn't anticipated having to teach you about that aspect of loneliness, to be honest! Never imagined it'd come up."

"You're being vague again."

"I don't like explaining things, Martin, so I'll thank you to be quiet as I muddle through this." His hand moved, and Martin froze as Peter gripped his bicep, one broad hand grasping him. He remembered very well what happened last time and tried to hold as still as he could, so still his bones felt like they were shaking. "I'm talking about the intrusion of the carnal into the lonely. Which is a misnomer, of course. If anything, it adds to loneliness, if you understand the shape of it."

A month ago, the idea of Peter Lukas talking about _ the carnal _ would have been a cause for stifled laughter. Now. It wasn't.

"Do you know, there's something of an in-joke among our community, about my family?" Awareness of Peter dragged like a needle-tip against Martin's skin as he stepped behind Martin. "Everyone seems to find it ironic I think, that we Lukases never want for company, and expand our family tree so easily." His hand suddenly pressed against Martin's lower back, a solid weight that felt like a stone holding Martin in place.

He kept his eyes forward, suddenly desperate not to give up any fear. Sure, it was pumping through his body like his blood had been replaced with a sticky hot cousin to panic, but he didn't want to give any of it up. It was his, not Peter's.

"Everyone finds it funny, for the devotees of the Lonely to be accomplished in seduction. It just shows a lack of comprehension on their parts. A narrow view of what loneliness is. You can be isolated in a crowd, in a warm bed, it's all simply… another _ method. _ It's something we can use, if you understand." Peter let out a harrumph, his breath stirring Martin's hair. "And clearly you need to understand. Or we'll have to remove the Archivist from the equation."

Martin almost turned, but the hand on his bicep clenched. "Leave him alone."

He was bodily nudged back against the desk, his hands landing palm-down against the mahogany. "No talking." Peter sighed. "Come now, Martin, you know I'm not any _ good _ at this. But if you need me to explain, I'll do my best."

This is where the evening split in half, as Martin stood there and weathered the calamity, two sharp tines digging into him.

First, Peter's hands. As he spoke in a low, amiable susurrus of apologia, his hands were so much more solid. Every press of his grip was steady, the diametric opposite of everything else about the man. When Peter made the decision to lay hands on, it had a gravity Martin had never felt before. Concrete and stone and anchor. It was a foregone conclusion.

Martin braced himself. He could survive anything. He was determined to make it through.

Peter stroked his sides, exploring the soft curves with a squeeze before cupping his hips, thumbs digging in a little hard. His explorations seemed idle, if proprietary, at first, until the belt around Martin's waist slackened. Martin sucked in a breath, and Peter's grip tightened for just a second. A reminder. _ Don't talk. _

For a long time, Martin had associated Peter with a permanent chill. But his hands were warm now. Really, it was the rest of the room that suddenly felt very cold, and the heat of Peter was the only furnace in the chill. He forced the cold out of Martin's skin as he pet and stroked, slipping one huge hand down and in between Martin's legs. Martin squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to tremble, trying not to leak fear out of his pores. He focused on the words.

The other half: Peter's voice.

"What no one seems to understand, Martin, is that with the right leverage, a carnal connection can be unfathomably lonely. We have to become scholars of this thing, loneliness. Most people simply fall into it, wallow in it, but we learn the shape of it, all the places where the mist obscures the sharp edges. Nuance is vital to our work. There's no other way to impart our knowledge to those who need to hear it.

"Finding someone to connect with in this world, it can seem like the perfect talisman to keep the Lonely at bay. I know many have tried. And sure, a few might succeed, escape back to the kind delusion of their lives. But we always murder that albatross eventually.

"Coming together is just another lesson in the shape of things, really. Isolating. You come right up against the barrier, trying to break through, trying to be united with another person, to know them. Maybe you trick yourself in the act that you're together in any meaningful way.

"But the truth is that it's just the proof, Martin. We are _ always _ alone. We reach a threshold, and the greatest intimacy we can share is just-- just an approximation of connection. Really, we can push and pull and entangle, try as we might, but we can never truly manage it. All we have is our _ idea _of what another person is. You can never know someone else totally, never bridge the gap, and so you can never trust them. The only thing we can ever know is ourselves as islands. And that, I find, is the loneliest place to be."

Every gasp of air from the cold room felt like swallowing ice. Martin bit his lips shut as his legs quaked.

He could make it through this. He thought about Jon, but the idea slid like glass. Peter's fingers were too rough, and his touch not rough enough. It was efficient.

He thought about being an island, then. Peter could put his hands on and draw quavering breaths from him, but he couldn't have Martin in any way that mattered. (No one could.)

Peter took him like handling a pen or tying a knot, like it was casual, like he did it all the time. His fingers tucked into Martin, and Martin flattened against the desk, teeth grit, forehead pressing hard to the surface like he could force the white-hot sensation out of his body.

His head was a chasm of howling, wordless noise. His body was alight. Maybe Peter didn't have it right at all. Maybe he could never know someone else, but he certainly couldn't know himself.

"I think you're getting it," Peter told him as Martin fogged the desk with his hard panting. "You could turn this around on your Archivist. Teach him the same thing. I'd be thrilled with that sort of progress, really. Do you have that in you, Martin? It'd be a mercy for him, and I don't think I can keep you from being merciful. Better to use it."

Martin said nothing, just squirmed and knocked his fists against the desk as the hot pressure expanded in his abdomen, and he came hot around Peter's fingers. The effort to keep quiet just made everything sing tighter through him, the taut chord strumming louder.

After was so predictable, Martin should've seen it coming. "Good talk," Peter said, leaving Martin where he lay as he vanished, a thick plume of fog falling over Martin's body and fanning out, down the corners of the desk, across the floor.

Martin slumped to the floor, his strength abandoning him, leaving him alone.

* * *

It was very late when Martin made a terrible decision and went downstairs.

He ached everywhere, like the prolonged bout of tension had left a mark on him. His footsteps were silent as he descended the staircase. A plume of _ don't look at me _ was draped around him like a cloak, but it was hardly necessary; this late, most of the Institute was empty.

Most people who worked here, they had homes to return to. Lives outside these walls. They clocked out and they left.

Martin was a lingering ghost, walking through the main lobby, past Rosie's empty desk, glancing at the heavy front doors that had already been locked for the night.

He should have returned to his room. Taken a shower hot enough to boil the sensation out of his skin, and gone to sleep.

He definitely shouldn't have stood at the top of the Archive stairs and watched the faint light below, trying to ascertain if anyone was still awake down there. God, he shouldn't have been concerned with that. He gained nothing from knowing if Jon was still awake.

Martin took a few steps down, and sat on the third step from the basement floor. The stair was chill under him, but so was everything, and it folded into the rest of his perception of the world around him.

Leaning his cheek against the tall spoke of the banister, Martin stared across the dark cavern of the Archives, lit only by the open door at the far end. And even then, the light in Jon's office was dim, like an old-fashioned study lit only by glass lamp.

Sitting still and quiet, Martin could see Jon reading aloud to the recorder, his head resting on his fist, his spectacles on the verge of falling off his nose. From afar, the details fell away. His voice wasn't even audible beyond a faint murmur. Martin was too far away.

He wondered if it would be creepy to send Jon a text, telling him to go to sleep already. Probably. And it would invite a certain… response. Which Martin definitely shouldn't allow. Not right now, when he still felt hollowed out and bereft from Peter's lesson.

Martin watched Jon's lips move around his recitation for long enough, Jon finished the statement. He put the papers he'd been reading down with a deep sigh, rolling his shoulders.

He stood, and Martin watched Jon sway suddenly, a stagger that he caught himself from. His eyes were wide before he just… let out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. From so far away, Martin still thought he could see his lips form _ 'Daisy' _ with a fond smile as he straightened up.

Martin wondered what he'd missed, with a pang. He wasn't supposed to be curious. His arms curled tighter around the banister post, his heart beating hard and slow, a steady drumbeat.

Jon shuffled around his office for a while, putting things away and even swaying around to some beat. Maybe there was music Martin couldn't hear. More likely not, and Jon was just acting…

Martin tilted his head and watched Jon. He was acting maybe a little tipsy? Had-- oh, god, had Daisy taken him out? That was very nice of her. It was… good Jon had friends. It was a relief, even if it made something in Martin's chest clench so hard, it felt like something might crack.

The office light clicked off, and the only light came from the moonlight pouring down the stairwell. Jon became a blue-lined shape as he walked through the Archives, towards the trapdoor.

At least he was going to bed. He needed the sleep. Martin let out a silent sigh.

Before he reached it, Jon stilled, his head lifting. He turned with one step, and Martin was immediately reminded of after the coffin, when Jon and Daisy had limped their way out of Artefact Storage. There was that moment when he stood at the top floor landing, watching them, and Jon had simply _ known _ Martin was there, and found him immediately.

Back then, Martin didn't know the vanishing trick. Now, he stilled, holding his breath as Jon turned his way, looking confused, taking slow steps closer.

Moving carefully, Martin got to his feet, standing and watching as Jon looked his way, unseeing but clearly detecting something. The cloak of Don't See Me was still tight in his hand as he ascended the stairs.

He looked back. He couldn't not.

Jon's lips were parted, his brow still furrowed as he stood on the second stair.

Backing away, Martin watched Jon follow, trailing along after some vague sense he had. Wandering off alone in the Institute this late was not a great idea, and Martin wouldn't-- he wasn't encouraging it. (As he lingered, waiting for Jon to make it to the ground floor.) He was holding his shroud close around him as he made his way upstairs. Jon would be dissuaded eventually. (He moved more swiftly, and Martin had to pick up the pace to keep ahead. Not too fast though, in case Jon stumbled or something.) He returned to his domain, the top floor. (Jon followed, the confusion clearing from his face and a look of determination creasing his expression.)

Martin turned the corner and let himself quickly into the broom closet. The same as before. Shut the door, and stood there in the dark, finally releasing the invisibility with a hitched gasp, the wash of cold sliding off his body.

Five seconds later, the door opened, and Jon stepped in, dark and silhouetted in the frame. "Martin," he whispered. The door fell shut behind him, and his footsteps were clear in the narrow room. "I felt you there, downstairs."

"Don't turn on the light," Martin said quickly.

The pause was heavy with worry before Jon stepped in. It was pitch black, and Jon's fingers found Martin's collar, slid to hold his shoulder. "Martin, what's wro--"

"Don't ask," he cut in. He couldn't. He couldn't say it aloud, what had happened, the doubts that clouded Martin's senses, the fear, everything that was _ wrong _ right now. "Don't ask me, I-- I can't."

A warm hand cupped his face. Jon was palpably close. "If that-- that bastard did something, I'll," Jon said, then kissed Martin, and seemed to completely lose his train of thought. He did taste like he'd been drinking, but hot underneath, and Martin needed the heat desperately.

Backed up, Martin bumped into something, and fumbled a hand in the dark to touch. A table, it seemed. He could brace one hand on it, behind him, as Jon crowded into him, touch slipping under Martin's shirt, around the soft skin of his hips.

"Feel so good," Jon murmured, into the corner of Martin's mouth. "God, I want you all the time."

Martin rolled his head back, sucking in a deep breath at _ that. _ Taking the opportunity, Jon kissed the column of Martin's throat, his tongue getting acquainted to where Martin's pulse thrummed under his skin. He worried at a spot with his teeth, humming with utter contentment as his hands worked at Martin's trousers.

Distracted by the tender worrying of lips against his throat, Martin didn't realize what would happen before it did. Jon was bold, from drink or familiarity maybe, and got his hand into Martin's pants.

Jon went completely statue still for a moment.

The fear crashed into Martin then. He couldn't see anything, but he could tell Jon was staring at him, his eyes open and devouring.

His fingers rubbed against where Martin was more than wet, where Peter had… had been. Jon sucked in a hard breath. "What. Did he do to--"

Jon sounded _ murderous, _ low and coiled and maybe just barely in control, in a way Martin had never heard before. Martin kissed him to stop him, and leaned back enough to say through his rattling anxiousness, "It mattered, right?" The question was quick, sharp, cutting. "It mattered. I-- I need to know this matters, Jon, or-- or what am I even fucking doing, what's this all for?"

"Martin," Jon said, voice rough, his hand cupping Martin's face again. God, his fingers were slightly slick, from--

Screwing his eyes shut, Martin leaned into Jon. "I need this to matter or I d--don't know how to get through this."

"It matters." Jon sounded just as desperate, kissing Martin, pressing their foreheads together. "I want you constantly, Martin, it never stops. Never gets easier. I just," he kissed him again, biting and fierce and longing.

Martin's jacket was buttoned until Jon yanked it and popped one right off the thread. He fairly yanked it off Martin, tossed it to the ground where it landed with a loud _ flump _. The noise that came out of Jon's throat was so low, like gravel grinding, Martin almost wanted to turn on the light to see him, to see his face. "Hate all of this, the-- the presumption of that prick," Jon growled as he divested Martin of more clothing, all with very little care for it surviving. His waistcoat was hurled deeper into the closet, perhaps to be absorbed by a dark corner and never seen again. "Not enough to-- to steal you, he's got to gloat about it."

Martin huffed out a laugh. "Jon, no one is _ meant to see me _, how is it--"

"I see you," Jon said.

There wasn't a good answer to that, so Martin kissed him again, hoping that would help.

Which: not really. There was some dangerous combination of liquid courage and strange directed jealousy that spurned Jon on. Every time Martin tried to soothe him, it didn't seem to work. It was like trying to calm an agitated cat, mostly fruitless.

The table behind him took his weight without complaint as Martin bent with the press of Jon's body, his trousers and pants finding their way around his ankles. He felt exposed, frightened, a little thrilled with Jon squeezing his thighs, his waist, letting out these almost pained noises as he insinuated closer.

"I need you," Jon ground out. "I _ need _ you, so much I can't even think some days." His hips fit against Martin's, and his dick was hard. His fingers gripped Martin tightly, canting them together until he fit between Martin's legs, cock smooth and hot against his folds.

Gripping the table harder, Martin's head lolled back, mouth open as Jon braced himself and rocked against the wetness. It burned so hot, he moved in time with Jon, their hips meeting. Sliding his legs just a bit further apart, Martin let Jon's dick start to glide into him, moaning skyward.

_ "Fuck. Martin." _Jon sounded wrecked, his head pressed to Martin's collarbone. "Tell me if i--it's not alright, tell me now."

"Do it," Martin told the dark ceiling. Then nearly lifted right off his toes as Jon worked into him with one slick upward thrust. He shouted, overwhelmed by the haste of it, of just the knowledge that Jon was in him, jesus christ. The angle was viciously good, Martin's arms shaking as they held him up, for Jon to thrust upward into him.

Jon's hand fumbled against the table until he found Martin's, gripping tight as they fucked beyond coherence. He was just a little taller than Martin, long legs that Martin had always admired too much. It drove him in deep, until Martin was almost wincing with the sensation of fullness.

Rubbing his face against Martin's neck, Jon murmured a senseless stream of: "Come back, come back to me, Martin, I'm sorry, come back," until the blood rushed in Martin's ears, and he ground hard against Jon's body, falling apart with a strangled groan.

He came back to Jon rocking almost gently into him, and touching his face. His fingertips against the apple of Martin's cheeks, over his brows, thumb tracing the line of his nose, pressing against his lips. It was still pitch black; maybe he needed to see.

Martin turned his head to breathe a faint, "Jon," against his palm.

Cupping Martin's jaw, Jon pressed their mouths together as he came between two beats of his hips, the shuddering weight of him falling entirely on Martin's chest for a moment. He came off, molten hot, so much Martin could feel it deep inside and his eyes slid shut as he breathed through it.

"Fuck," Martin said, rubbing his face.

Jon mumbled something that wasn't _ remotely _ words, stropping his cheek against Martin's shoulder. He held Martin's elbows and pulled, drawing them away from the table, and then down onto the floor.

He expected that to be a terrible idea, the cold cement under them. But Jon sat down and tugged Martin into him. His knees were too wobbly to resist, and Martin folded down with him, slumping across Jon's body in a boneless sprawl.

They caught their breaths together, Jon's arm slung around Martin, his cheek against Martin's hair.

"Ngh. Jon." When Jon gave a little grunt of acknowledgement, Martin asked, "Are we lying on my jacket?"

"Mhm." Jon poked his nose in Martin's curls and let out an almost giddy laugh.

"What?"

"You smell the same." Jon inhaled deeply, _ obviously _ smelling him. "What is that?"

Martin laughed. "Uhm, I don't… know, I've used the same EDP for years?"

"I'm rather fond of it." He rubbed his face against Martin's hair some more and sighed. "Also I… am slightly drunk."

"I actually kind of figured that? Are you alright?"

Jon snorted. "Am _ I…? _ God, Martin, are you?" He eased back, like he could look at Martin despite the dark. "If… If Lukas, if he _ hurt _ you--"

"It wasn't like that," Martin said, though he wasn't sure what it had been like. Just that he didn't want to think about it, and right now, there was enough dark promise in Jon's voice, he was worried about him going on some rampage or something. And that wouldn't help anything.

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, though Martin thought Jon was quietly fuming. Something about the way his hands curled around Martin.

Sighing, Martin said, "You've finally wrecked my clothes. Should head back to my room for a shower."

"You have a bedroom?" Jon asked, light and casual.

"Yea-- _ no." _ Martin flicked Jon in the arm. Christ, he was still fully dressed as he held Martin. Heat flushed through him. "You're not allowed there, ever. Peter will absolutely catch you, he likes to show up to annoy me."

With much less humor, Jon said, "Peter Lukas shows up in your bedroom."

Goddammit. "That's not-- no." Martin shook his head. "Jon."

The arms around him tightened. "Martin. Come back."

"I _ can't." _ Dashing the small flickering hope in Jon's voice felt unbelievably cruel. "Jon, I can't yet. I need to figure this out, especially if you're…" He swallowed. "Not going to stop."

"I won't," Jon said immediately, and squeezed Martin again. "I… I don't know what it was, but coming back and you being gone, I just-- you were-- I think I didn't know until you were gone, which is dreadful, I know, but I…" He moaned, miserable, and whispered, "Please come back. I'll be better."

Oh, fuck. Martin shut his eyes tightly, a lump suddenly lodged his his throat. "That's not why, Jon. I'm not, it's-- it's not because you."

"Come back then," he asked again.

"I can't. I don't…" Martin licked his lips. "I don't know how, not yet."

A low, sad whine eeked out of Jon. "Not yet. Then maybe soon." He shivered all over, as if he were the one undressed and exposed to the chill air. "Then… come back for the night? Just tonight. Come with me."

Bad idea. Terrible idea.

"Yeah, alright," Martin said. "Someone has to make sure you make it back alright, you lush."

It didn't stop being a bad idea as they extricated themselves from their heap on the floor and shuffled around. Martin tried to find his clothes, but was also unwilling to turn on the light. The state of the broom closet was probably… telling.

Someday, someone would need it for something other than very ill-advised trysts, and if Martin stopped to consider that, he'd have just a bit of a freak out.

He got his trousers up, though his belt was missing. He didn't remember Jon getting rid of it.

"Martin, it's _ late. _ No one's around." He tugged Martin along, opening the door. The moonlit corridor outside seemed blinding for a moment, making Martin squint. "And there's things downstairs."

"If we get caught by _ anyone _," Martin threatened, but Jon's fingers laced with his and he pulled Martin along.

The walk back to the basement was blissfully silent. Though the chill was really starting to seep into Martin's body. Downstairs was even colder, and Martin let go of Jon to cross his arms.

"Here," Jon said, and unlocked document storage. The old yellow light came on, and Martin watched Jon consult the armoire and filing cabinet that the Archive team had taken over for personal effects.

The jumper he pulled out was a deep maroon boatneck Martin hadn't worn in… over a year now. The boxers were grey with small star patterns. Looking strangely pleased with himself, Jon handed them over. "I'll steal a spare pillow from my cot," he said, and slipped away again.

Taking the opportunity, Martin discard the rest of his clothes and redressed.

It was… very strange. He hadn't wore something like this in so long, he'd sort of forgotten the sensation of softly fraying lambswool against his skin. It was forgiving and buttery smooth as it wrapped warmly around him. He turned his arm over, looking at a small ink stain that he'd gotten ages ago. It never washed clean, and Martin didn't have the heart to throw the entire thing out.

Jon returned, tossing the extra pillow into the bed. Then, he flicked off the light and said, "Come on."

He would have to be gone by morning, Martin decided as he followed Jon into the bed, under the covers. The sheets were cold, and he noticed Jon rubbing his legs around, trying to warm everything up.

He couldn't stay here, he shouldn't have even agreed to this, Martin mused as he tucked his arm under his pillow.

Jon's legs pressed to his, and Jon curled a hand over Martin's tucked arm, thumb stroking in little sweeps.

Martin, to his own surprise, fell asleep first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter: unsafe sex, gay stammering, someone having sex while mildly intoxicated, and peter lukas being a grade A bastard (dubcon and manipulation)
> 
> INHALES DEEPLY
> 
> _EMOTIONS_
> 
> Peter's bullshit speech to Martin is in part inspired by a monologue in FATT'S Twilight Mirage, but further explanation would be Intensely Spoilery. Shout out to Austin Walker.
> 
> (Also this chapter has ANOTHER pointless Siken reference. I am very on brand.)


	5. the slow conquest of spaces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now with chapter titles

In the morning, Jon woke and Martin was predictably gone.

Rolling onto his back, he shut his eyes again and swallowed down the rising bile of resigned disappointment. He'd slept in the warm spot between the wall and Martin's body, very comfortably, but in doing so had given Martin the perfect opportunity to slip away.

Which meant now he was alone with a pressure like a boulder behind his eyes and a low simmering fear of what would happen when he was forced to face any significant light. It was very petulant, he knew, but he thought… it might've been nice if Martin were there. He would be a perfect target to have a whinge at, with his peculiar blend of sympathy and exasperation.

Instead, Jon had no one to perform for. No one to commiserate-- or just miserate at.

With his own miserable company, Jon considered a simple question: what would it take? What would it take for him to… relax his grip around this green angry thing in his chest, the smoke and fire that blinded him and made him just slightly out of his mind when it came to all matters concerning Martin Blackwood?

Jon had kissed him, used his hands to make Martin fall apart, enfolded himself in Martin as thoroughly as he knew how, and now been blissfully unconscious next to him.

Still, before he realized he was doing it, Jon flung out a metaphysical hook, letting it catch against Martin, a thread connecting him to the knowledge of where Martin was. And it thrummed between them, soaking into Jon like a diffusing vibration.

There must've been something he was seeking, something that would finally douse the fire in him. But damned if he knew what it was.

Just a constant ache. Like a bruise he couldn't keep his fucking hands away from.

Next time, he'd take the outer edge of the bed. If there was a next time.

The edges of the thought glowed, heated, too bright to touch. Jon groaned and sat up very slowly, one hand against his head as it started to pound.

He was indulging in an elaborate fantasy about Martin's hands and where they might dig into the slope of his neck, kneading the pain out, when the door to document storage opened, and light poured in.

Jon flung up his arms, blocking it. "Oh, christ, is that necessary?"

"Jon?" Basira sounded very honestly perplexed. "Were you still asleep? It's half ten." She let out a terse noise. "Or have you been awake? Which one is it?"

"I slept." He folded a hand over his eyes and sighed. "Our beloved Daisy took me out."

"Ah, explains it. She seemed a little more self-satisfied last night. Good talk?"

Jon nodded. "Yes, very." And didn't elaborate further. He and Basira… did not have that sort of relationship anymore. If they ever had.

"Good. Well." She walked in, consulted a shelf of books, and took down a few tomes. "I'm going to be out on a lead. Try to stay out of trouble."

"Give your mystery informant my regards," Jon said.

"Mh, best I don't." She closed the door behind her, and it was nice and dim in the storage room once again.

Laying back down, Jon shut his eyes again.

* * *

Martin wondered if he was cut out for this, for being an island.

It was Jon, obviously. Jon's stated purpose was to sabotage Martin's attempts at isolation, at becoming ready for the Lonely.

That was genuinely really counterproductive and sort of ruining Martin's plans.

But it was also so antithetical to the Lonely, to have been singled out by someone who was hurling themselves like a human-shaped wrecking ball into Martin's efforts just to keep him around, that the desire to _ be _ alone, to drift as a ghost through the Institute and remain in the lofty tower of the top floor, was… breaking.

When Martin realized that, that the low-grade contentment that he felt at being alone in his office with the ticking clock and the schedules and the impersonal email chains was fading, he did panic. Sitting in his executive chair, he crossed his legs, lotus style, and sank deep into the Lonely's vanishment. His vision went slightly blurred, and the cold bit him harder than he remembered since the last time he'd done this. But eventually he was numb and hidden.

He told himself it was fine. He could turn this around. Especially given the way Peter vanished for sometimes weeks on end. There was time.

As he took a break to make coffee, he paused at the top of the staircase. The view from up here was nice; a long overview of every floor of the Institute and the lobby below, the people who went about their tasks without glancing up at him.

Except one person, walking up from the basement and finding Martin immediately.

Martin had told himself very sternly that he was going to go at least a week before seeing Jon again. A week wasn't very long and was very doable.

Jon looked up at him, and tipped his head to the side, considering something.

Martin retreated. Back to his office, to a new statement sitting in his otherwise empty inbox. Thank god, he needed the distraction.

Sitting down, Martin flicked open the manilla folder. Another letter from Adelard Dekker to Gertrude Robinson. Great. Just what he needed right now, another weird encounter with maybe the Extinction.

He glanced up to check if the tape recorder was ready, only to discover a curious lack of one.

Martin gave the statement a suspicious look. Was it fake? Was this Peter's own attempt at subterfuge? If it were genuine, surely a recorder would have appeared.

He checked in the various drawers of the desk and in the filing cabinet before sinking dejectedly back into his chair, unsure what he was missing.

There was a tap at the door, and the handle rattled for a moment. Martin stiffened in instinctive fear before remembering he'd never seen Peter use a door in their entire acquaintance. Why would he when he could just dissipate into a bunch of fog?

The jiggling stopped for a second, then the door opened a crack. "There," Jon said declaratively, and bent to pick up a mug from the floor. He had one in each hand now, and hip-checked the door shut.

Martin _ heard _ a tape recorder click itself on, and spotted one hanging jauntily out of Jon's jacket pocket. He wondered if Jon had mindlessly shoved it in there or it it had apparated from nothing, as usual.

Leaning back in his chair, Martin crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at Jon.

Jon blithely ignored this and set the mugs down, pointedly putting one closer to Martin than his coffee mug. "Before you give me the 'Jon, you can't be here,' lets note that I apparently can be, as I'm standing here before you." He noticed the recorder and took it out. "I… didn't put this there."

"I was going to read a statement," Martin said, and held out a hand. When Jon handed it over, he put the recorder on the desk. "You do realize it's literally dangerous for you to be up here?"

Jon leaned his hip against the desk and blew over the top of his tea mug. "Should we adjourn to a closet then?"

"Jon!" His face flushed with heat. "You don't have to make it sound like-- like that!"

A perfect dark eyebrow rose. "Like what? Like we're having a persistent sordid office affair in a small dark room?"

"You started it!"

"I did," Jon said, and was clearly smirking as he sipped his tea. After, he pulled another face, a grimace. "What am I doing wrong? Why doesn't it taste the same as when you make it?"

Martin picked up his own mug and took a sip. "Seems fine."

Something akin to a pout took over Jon's face. "Regardless."

"I, you know, I'm _ trying _ to do this," Martin said, a note of pleading in his voice. "To repair my-- my affinity for the Lonely, and here you are, swanning in--"

"I don't _ swan, _ you and Daisy, I swear," Jon complained.

"--and, look, we? We're not going to talk." Martin picked up the statement folder again. "I won't speak to you, so go away."

Making his opinion of this quite clear, Jon rolled his eyes, and didn't move. Well, he would eventually. Martin just had to be firm. He took another sip of tea to wet his mouth before flicking to the first page. "Martin Blackwood, Assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of--"

Jon snorted, very softly, unimpressed.

"--th--the Magnus Institute, recording statement of Adelard Dekker. Taken from a letter to Gertrude Robinson, dated fourth of December, 2009." He sat back in his chair, spine relaxing, as something like sweet oil settled over his tongue. "Statement begins."

As he read aloud, Jon went silent, attentive. Martin couldn't quite pull his eyes away from the page, from the specific line he was on, not even to just glance around the edge of the paper, but he could feel Jon's eyes on him as he went through Adelard's words.

Statements were very affecting. Often, he felt them like a slow descent, sinking to the bottom of a pool, the feeling of weight and stillness rooting him in place, in the statement. It was almost meditative, distantly observing the transferred emotions of the statement like trees over the water's surface.

He was aware, similarly, of Jon moving around the office. But he had no idea what Jon was doing until there was a soft _ flump _ noise on the floor nearby, and in Martin's peripheral vision, he saw Jon sink to the ground.

Martin stuttered over a word, almost paused in his reading… but he had the tempo, the cadence, and it carried him along, even as Jon shifted, as the weight of his head rested against Martin's calf.

At the end of a passage, Martin took a steadying breath and continued on through the end of the letter, imminently aware of the warmth of Jon seeping into his leg.

"Statement ends," Martin intoned, blinking slowly. "I. Uh."

He looked down at Jon, who was sitting on a pillow stolen from the (purposefully very uncomfortable) guest chair. His hand was loosely curled around Martin's ankle, touch lax but warm, his posture languid and draped against Martin.

"What are you doing?" Martin asked quietly.

"Hm?" Jon lifted his head just enough to acknowledge him. "Thought we weren't speaking."

True, but how did that translate into _ this? _ By now, Martin was well used to Jon careening into him and being pushy and intent and _ weirdly _ fixated on Martin's clothes. He didn't know what to do with this, the flipped switch, Jon still being _ around _ and refusing to leave, but being at Martin's feet.

He swallowed, mouth dry. He took another sip of tea, licking his lips.

"Now, if we _ were _ speaking," Jon said, "I would point out that Mr. Dekker's statement includes much of his own doubts about this being a genuine case of the Extinction. I also find it somewhat unclear. Rather than seeming like a concrete example of an emergence, there are the fingerprints of the Spiral, the Flesh, and even some similarities to older statements about the Hunt."

"You-- since when do you--" Martin floundered.

"I found the last set of tapes you made a while ago," Jon said, waving a hand. "This one isn't terribly convincing."

"Are you saying that to get a rise out of me?"

"I'm saying it because it's true." His mug was in his lap, and he raised it to his lips. "They can't all be full-proofed and clear signs of an emerging fear. I just wonder why Lukas is wasting your time, if he's so eager to convince you of his still-mysterious plan."

"Jon, why are you…" The press of his head against Martin was pleasant, and his hair was right _ there _, and Martin hadn't seen him in a few days, and Martin's hair brushed lightly against where Jon's hair lay on his trousers. It slipped against his fingertips, springing fly-aways outward. His hair was thinner than Martin's, and seemed barely-tamed into an acceptable shape. "Why are you sitting on the floor?"

"Because I miss you," Jon said simply, like it was easy. "I've stolen a pillow, I'm perfectly fine. I figured if we're not speaking, I'd make myself comfortable at least."

"Oh," Martin said, and let the conversation trail off. Jon, for his part, took another sip of his mug, let out another grimace, and set it neatly on the floor next to him. Otherwise, he was still.

Testing the water, Martin started to work on the normal admin tasks that Peter never deigned to do. Payroll had to be manually approved every time, and the changes to people's hours and the accordance to breaks had to be reviewed. It was tedious.

Jon remained where he was. Martin thought his eyes were shut. His breathing wasn't quite deep enough for sleep, but there was something meditative about his stillness.

Chewing his lip, Martin tried to focus, to get things done. Peter was the Head of the Institute, but Martin _ ran _ the damn thing.

The feeling of Jon's head against his leg was a constant reminder of his presence. It never quite managed to slip into the background of his awareness. The heady coating of loneliness couldn't find purchase as he tapped away at the computer.

Under everything, there was a small voice that panicked, that reminded Martin this was _ bad, _ the erosion of all his work was coming like a rockslide.

And under that, Martin loved Jon Sims so fiercely, it felt ingrained in him, as much a part of him as his blood and bones, and something exhausted and weary settled at last with Jon's presence. He'd spent so long trying to carve out the emotion, to offer it up to his new allegiance, only for the hollow space to be filled in again, flooding over the brim and dripping like hot syrup through Martin's veins.

Jon lifted his head, stretched his arms over his head, and got to his feet. Bending, he picked up his mug, then checked Martin's. Finding it empty, he picked it up too.

"Oh," Martin said, and then watched Jon straighten his clothes and circle the desk.

Without saying anything, Jon lifted the mugs looped through the fingers and thumb of his burned hand, a lazy salute. He opened the door, and gave Martin one final lingering look, then was gone.

Martin's heart was fluttering in a mortifying way.

* * *

The days stretched into weeks, and Martin did not mean to relax.

It was impossible not to, it wasn't even a decision. It just _ happened. _ He drank his coffee on the landing, and inevitably Jon would catch him and stare up across the open air of the staircase. They accidentally had lunch together when Jon intercepted his food delivery to bring it up himself. More quiet spells with Jon just hanging around, and a few stolen kisses that grew bolder and bolder.

There was no sign of Peter, and Martin _ did not _ mean to relax, but it was heady and sweet, relearning what it meant to be with someone.

Late, far after hours, Martin slipped into the Archives, and told himself he wasn't bothering with his veil of Don't Notice Me because everyone was already asleep, not because his grip on it had begun to slip. He wandered the shelves of un-processed records, pulling out file boxes and thumbing through papers.

He expected to draw attention, and wasn't surprised when Jon leaned on the shelves, at the mouth of the aisle. "Mr. Blackwood," he greeted evenly.

"Hi," Martin said, tugging another box free to flip off the lid and flick through it. "Looking for some documents from Dekker. Just in case there's… something."

Jon walked into the aisle to lean on the shelves much closer to Martin. "In case Lukas is being… _ selective _ in what letters he shows you?"

"Maybe." Martin glanced askance at him. "How, uh. How're you?"

A slow, terribly handsome smile spread over Jon's face. "Oh, I'm… well. I'm well. Hungry, but dealing, I believe." He paused, as if unsure if he should go on. "You asked."

He'd asked after Jon. God. "I did, it seems, yeah."

The smile was so sweet on Jon's face, making the creases around his eyes deepen. It was so nice to see him with laugh lines instead of worry lines. He went on: "I could put Daisy on looking, if you like. Melanie's essentially quit, and Basira is never around, but Daisy and I might be able to locate something for you. If it would help."

"I should do it myself," Martin said quietly.

"No, you shouldn't," Jon countered, but gently. His voice was low and soft, suiting the late hour. "Let us help."

Sighing, Martin shut the lid of the box and slid it back into place. "Peter will…"

Jon raised his eyebrows, waiting.

But Martin didn't know what Peter would do. Maybe it could be simple. Maybe Martin would just… tell him the deal was off. Maybe he could find another way to handle the Extinction.

He shut his eyes. He was being an idiot. Peter had a plan already, or something like a plan.

Or maybe it was all a ruse to create another avatar to the Lonely.

Martin didn't _ know _ anymore. All his straightforward planning was unpinning and crumpling under the weight of… of his kindling comfort with Jon's presence.

"Regardless," Jon said, apparently deciding Martin wasn't going to finish that sentence. "It's very late. You should sleep. There's, uh." He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "There's the bed, if you'd like to come."

"I've got a bed," Martin pointed out a little wryly. "Less cramped than the document storage bed."

A little moue of disappointment appeared on Jon's face. "Is that so."

The thought struck Martin, and he knew it was a bad idea, the worst idea, just bad bad bad. "Want to see?" he asked.

Jon inhaled sharply, then said, "Yes."

So, Martin took Jon upstairs and to his room. Which was such a bad idea. With every step he further considered how bad this could go, and nearly turned them right back around.

But Martin unlocked the non-descript office door that hid his current residence, and like a cat eager to get into a room they ought not, Jon slipped inside before Martin could say so much as a _ 'come on in.' _

Checking the hallway, Martin locked up behind again, feeling like nothing so much as a teenager sneaking their crush into their bedroom while their parents were sleeping.

The bedroom was basically the largest office Martin could find, converted into a little suite. He supposed it could have been a conference room or something once upon a time, but the Magnus Institute hardly had use for such things. The most obvious remnants were the lights overhead, conspicuously strung in a way that suggested work more than home.

Jon loped around the room, turning slowly on his heel to take everything in.

"You've had a private bathroom up here this whole time," Jon murmured. He sounded slightly put out.

"It, uh, we converted after Peter hired me on," Martin said. "It wasn't… safe to go out anymore, so most of us stopped."

Something seemed to occur to Jon and he darted to the freestanding closet against the wall. Opening it, he stared at the hanging suits, the carefully folded shirts, the oxfords sitting on the base board. "Hm. Is this wood?"

Martin hurried over and nudged him away from it, shutting the door. "Don't start a bloody fire, Jon, for god's sake. I knew bringing you here was a bad idea."

"It was a joke," Jon said, a shade defensive. Martin wasn't sure it had been, not entirely. He stepped away, to Martin's sink, and picked up a bottle, sniffing it.

It _ really was _ like letting a cat into a new space. "What are you doing?"

"Just, you know." Jon put the perfume bottle down and put his hands in his pockets, recalcitrant. "Getting a-- a feel for it." He eyed the little bookshelf with almost manic keenness.

"Okay, just don't… break anything." Martin sighed and started to undo his tie. He could get ready for bed while Jon pleased himself.

"Am I a child?" He picked out a book with slim fingers, catching it in his other palm and opening it. Some old Anne Carson book Martin had picked up ages ago. "'If all the lamps in the house were turned out, you could dress this wound by what shines from it.' Hm. Carson at least can make Keats serviceable."

Rolling his eyes, Martin undressed, keeping his eyes on his hands and trying to ignore the strange shyness of the act. He and Jon had done _ much _ more intimate things, so this shouldn't have made him nervous.

"All your books are here?" Jon asked.

"All my things are here, really," Martin said. "I technically have a flat, but haven't been there in ages. I just send a cheque. Just nice to have… an option, I guess."

He took off his shirt and started on his trousers before looking up, checking on Jon again. He was navigating the circumference of the room, looking at absolutely everything.

Jon pulled opened the top drawer of Martin's bedside table and Martin's stomach dropped into his shoes. "J-Jon, wait--"

Pulling open the lower drawer, Jon froze for two seconds before slamming it back closed. "I, well, I, I should have… anticipated."

Martin shut his eyes for a moment. "Why'd you look in there?"

"I don't know, I was sort of," Jon twirled a wrist demonstrably, "letting my momentum carry me along." He tucked one hand behind his neck, breathing out slow. He peered at Martin over his shoulder, nervous, then looked swiftly away again.

"Like I said," Martin said, flushing. "All my things are here."

"Right." He kept looking at the drawer, lower lip pale under the press of his teeth. "Well, I. You're, ah, partial to… green."

If Martin kept his eyes shut, this conversation wouldn't be real. It wouldn't be happening. A giddy feeling was starting to swell like a balloon in him, and he might pop into effervescence if he wasn't careful. Bracing himself, Martin looked at Jon. "You can look if you want. Else you might explode."

"I just-- I, it, I just caught a glimpse, so now my mind is _ inventing _\--" Jon stopped abruptly and pulled the drawer out, looking inside again.

Making a decision, Martin went to brush his teeth. Best to leave Jon to it.

When he was done and stepped back out of the bathroom, Jon had sat on the bed and was still looking through the drawer.

"Jon," Martin said with an eternal patience. "Did you… find something interesting?" God, that came out much more lascivious than he intended.

Jon withdrew a hand from the drawer, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Would it… be bad if I had?"

This was suddenly a different conversation, and Martin walked over to lean on the nightstand. "No. But um." He tugged on his earlobe, and busied himself taking out his earrings. "Should we. Talk about this at all? I sort of thought you didn't _ do _… sex."

Jon straightened up, his legs crossed, a hand cupped over each knee. The look on his face was imperious and aloof as he didn't quite meet Martin's eye. "I've had sex. That much must be obvious now."

"A bit," Martin said sardonically.

"Yes, exactly." He rolled his shoulders back. "I… you know, I described it to Daisy as being like cooking, but it's an unfortunately imperfect metaphor. I enjoy the acts around cooking, the chopping and the whisking and all that, and I'll eat something once I've made it because it's _ there _ , but I don't feel the urge towards food, essentially." He frowned. "Of course, food is necessary, while sex is _ not, _ so." With a loud sniff, he looked down into his lap, face pinched. "I enjoy things in relation to you specifically. You're an integral part of the equation."

"It's like tea," Martin said.

Jon looked up, finally meeting his eyes. "How so?"

With a smirk, Martin elaborated: "You only seem to like it when I make it."

There was a slow blink, and Jon straightened. "It's… like tea. That's it _ exactly, _ Martin."

"There you go then." Jon sounded so pleased about it, Martin felt himself flush. It was… nice to be special, to be someone's _ exception _, so to speak.

"It's like tea," Jon repeated quietly, nodding. He held Martin's gaze for a moment, a grin unfolding on his face. Jon's smiles were rare enough, they transformed his face into something bright, like the light catching on an old coin. Martin wanted to kiss him.

Clearing his throat, Jon said. "So. I was noticing the prevalence of green." He hesitated for a moment, before reaching into the drawer and taking out a silicone toy, green hues marbled together along the shaft.

Martin nodded, because he _ was _ an adult and that _ was _his dildo. "Yes. Never, ah. Cared for the skin tone ones much, personally? Sort of…" He shrugged in an extremely casual and cool way. "Sort of a fan of the prettier ones, honestly."

"Ah," Jon said gravely. "Always enthralled by a particular aesthetic." He reached in again and shook something loose from under some other things, pulling out a web of dark straps. "Are they compatible?"

Martin's face was turning red. "Yep. Have you ever…?"

A little line appeared in between Jon's brows. "No, never had the chance."

"You and Geo-- I mean--" Martin could have slapped himself, that wasn't an okay question to ask.

"Ah, no," Jon said, pulling the dildo and the harness on his lap and apparently trying to figure out how it worked, untangling the straps. "I believe we had sex… four times?" He suddenly started counting on his fingers. "Two birthdays, one anniversary, then the other time, yes." With a rueful smile, he went on: "She wasn't much more interested in it than I was? Or perhaps I wasn't very good at it, and she was sparing herself."

"You're good," Martin said, seized by the need to reassure him. "You, yeah, you're quite good. At it."

"Oh, good." Jon smiled softly. "I… did research, actually. Read a lot of articles, watched videos, that sort of thing."

"You watched porn for _ research?" _ Martin grinned.

Jon drew himself up. "Yes. It seemed the thing to do. I went a-- a very long time without the, the impetus to try with anyone, so much so that by the time my interest was piqued, I felt behind on the topic. I didn't want to subject some poor soul to my inexperience, so I-- yes. Research." He squinted at Martin. "You may laugh if you like, but _ you've _ hardly complained."

"No, no," Martin said, smiling wider. "I'm thinking about it, and I… think that might be very sweet of you, putting in that effort." It was such a _ Jon _ thing to do, honestly. "But nothing about this?"

"No, this is a new venture."

Martin bobbed his head once. "Alright. Then, let's… broaden some horizons, then." He reached out, took the harness and dildo from Jon. "Not this one."

"You're the expert," Jon agreed peacably. "You'll take care of me, won't you."

It was not a question at all, a statement of truth, and Martin felt it simmer in his gut. "Yeah," Martin said with a little rasp.

The toy Jon had picked was fine, but Martin had a more… preferred choice for this. Shifting things around, he picked out a double ended dildo, this one a pearly, almost pastel green with flecks of gold. The color was just killer, in Martin's opinion, and one end had a sharp upward curve so it would fit inside nicely. It wasn't very large, but it didn't have to be, not for this. Just the feedback deep inside was intense.

He tucked his thumb into his boxers and glanced at Jon, who had tossed his jacket aside and was pulling up his jumper by the hem, flashing his chest in an almost graceful bend. Martin feasted his eyes on the lean shape of Jon, his stomach, the faint line of his ribs.

His ribs. Martin stilled, staring. "Jon."

Jon threw his jumper off the bed and reached for his trousers. "Hm?"

"Are you… Your…" Martin shook his head. "Nevermind, I just."

"I'm missing two, I know," Jon said plainly.

"Two?"

"Ribs." He unfolded his legs to shimmy his dark jeans off. "It's a recent development."

Ribs. He was missing two ribs. And this was new. Martin blinked hard, as if he could reset reality to something more sensible. "I'm sorry, what? How? How are you _ missing ribs?" _

Jon opened his mouth, then stopped, seeming to reconsider. "Hm. I think… I will tell you, but in the morning." He shucked off his pants and sat back down, his legs stretched out, pointing his toes before relaxing. "Consider it incentive to… be there in the morning."

That stung. "Jon."

Blithely ignoring him, Jon nodded to the dildo. "Do you need… help with that?"

"No," Martin said, and pushed off his pants and took out the nice little utilitarian pump of lube he had, wetting his side heavily.

Jon leaned back on his arms, making quite a show of watching as Martin grasped the damn thing, smooth with that lovely satiny texture, and pressed it up against himself. Tense. So, he breathed out slowly, pushed, and hitched up on his toes at it slipped in.

A sharp breath left Jon. That was encouraging. Martin braced himself on the nightstand and coaxed himself to take it in enough so the other end was situated right. "Haa, okay, th-the other thing. Harness."

Jon scrambled to grab it and help, though the strap situation seemed to confuse him. Martin grabbed his wrist and moved him to where the buckle was situated. "Do that," he instructed, and worked the other end of the silicone cock through the ring. Pulling it secure, Martin bit his lip. "Fuck."

"What?" Jon stilled. "Should I… loosen this?"

"No, I can just feel it," Martin explained. "Come on, that side's fine."

It might've gone faster if Martin did it himself, but the slight shake in Jon's hands as he tightened the straps and did the buckles up was doing more for Martin than anything. The extra arousal helped immensely, making everything feel that much better inside and pressed around him.

Jon sat on the bed again and gave Martin's swirly pastel green dick a look of anxious challenge. "Right."

"You can give it a hello, if that'll help," Martin offered, trying to be thoughtful even as his voice grew husky at the idea.

"A hello," Jon repeated wryly, but nonetheless tentatively took hold of the dick. His thumb stroked slowly. "Can you, no, you couldn't feel that."

"Uh, I can," Martin said with a breathless laugh. "Other side's in me, so."

"Oh. _ Oh." _ Jon's eyes grew wide. "Right." He stroked it, the weight pushing down. The firm pressure against Martin's inner walls made him gasp, putting a hand on Jon's shoulder for balance. "Okay, I think I've got the idea. It's-- _ genius, _ actually."

"Thanks," Martin laughed, shifting his hips so his dick slid in a slow circle through Jon's grip. "Want to… lay back?"

His adamant nod was exciting, and Jon climbed back onto the bed, situating himself in the approximate center. His dick was hard, and matched him well, a lean dark curve tilted up towards his belly. Following him up and situating himself between Jon's legs, Martin took a moment to just stare. They'd already done so much, but this was the first Martin got to _ see _ Jon.

Jon seemed similarly mesmerized for the moment, eyes flicking between Martin's face, his arms, the swell of his hips, his cock, and back up to his eyes. His hands slowly fisted in the sheets, pulling, and his cock just started to bead precome, just from being looked at.

"Yeah?" Martin asked, and touched Jon's knee.

"Yes." His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "The-- I like the green. Suits you."

With a snort, Martin reached out for the pump-top again, and slicked up his hand. "Thank you. I'm fond of it myself." The lube was a little chill, and Martin cupped it in his palm for a moment to warm it, before touching Jon's thigh. "Okay?"

"Quite. Do it."

He was so dramatic about everything. Martin coated his fingers and used his shoulders to brace Jon's legs back. There was a deep satisfaction with knowing he was the first to do this, to work Jon open around his fingers.

"Easy," Martin soothed as Jon rolled his head back, biting his lip.

"I've got it," Jon replied, stubborn. He didn't, not until Martin stroked his flank for a moment, waiting for Jon to unlock a little, to take some more.

He loosened around a deep sigh, shutting his eyes and taking Martin's hand in his to squeeze. "There. I told you I had it."

"Read any articles about this?" Martin jibed mildly as he pulled, gently stretching Jon out, already anticipating sliding his dick inside.

A ghost of a laugh. "I'm sure I did, but gun to my head, I couldn't recall reading _ anything _ in my life right now."

"Christ, I hope that's good."

"It's _ affecting." _ Jon patted his hand.

Martin was feeling pretty damn affected himself, a flush spreading up his chest into his neck as he watched Jon open up for him, the way he gradually relaxed into the bed. He was gorgeous, tall, dark and handsome in the best way. Scarred vividly in some places. Reedy, almost lanky in others.

His mouth opened into a little circle as Martin slipped his fingers free and knee-walked closer in. His smooth dick rubbed against the cleft of Jon's arse for a moment. "Okay?" Martin asked again.

"Please," Jon said.

How could he deny such politesse? Martin positioned Jon's legs, bending them back, and rose up enough on his knees, lining up and getting the easy curve to catch against Jon's hole. Tipping up and forward, the blunt tip spread him, sliding in to the soft edge of the cockhead.

Jon blew out a long breath and inhaled deeply again. One hand tightening against the bed, his other pressed over Martin's.

"Yeah?"

A strained noise wrenched form Jon's throat. "I will _ tell you _ if there's a problem, just _ move _, Martin, before I pull something from the suspense."

"Right, right," Martin said, and canted his hips up, sinking further into Jon.

The glide was so smooth, Martin sank into it like quicksand, just pushing gradually in and in. Jon's mouth opened soundlessly, brow furrowing. Martin nearly asked him again, but stopped just in time, easing in.

The pressure was _ good _, the blunt edge inside Martin starting rubbing against him. Rolling his hips exerted more pressure, and Martin bit his lips around a moan, hand on Jon's leg tightening.

"Martin," Jon groaned, his hips shifting as much as they could when he was so pinned. "Th--that's good, I think, that's--" Martin sank in the last inch, and Jon's eyes went unfocused, distracted. "Fuck."

"Jon," Martin said, low and intent, rolling his hips up. "S'good, you feel good."

"Yeah," Jon agreed desperately, and shuddered all over as Martin rocked harder into him. "Big-- big fan of y-your dick, if you wanted to do more."

A delirious laugh floated out of Martin. Hot all over and a little wild, Martin pulled back and stroke in hard, jostling Jon's entire body with one good thrust.

"Shit!" Jon gripped the bed. "That, yes, that."

Martin did it again, a little harder, and Jon shouted, and then it was off to the races. The dick in Martin ran relentlessly against him and he pushed into Jon, stroking in again and again as Jon's body tensed and arched, hard little gasps knocking out of him each time. He was animated, moving like he couldn't help it, like the sensation was electric in him, and Martin drank it in as he fucked Jon. He paused enough to get closer, pulling Jon's hip off the bed a bit to get a better angle.

Jon flushed dark everywhere, groaning up at the headboard. "Yes" and "oh, fuck," and "ha-ah" were the closest he got to words, a rolling senseless commentary on everything.

One of his heels pressed against Martin, around his hip. It was encouragement plenty, and Martin planted his hands on the bed for leverage to fuck Jon and himself out of their minds. He could feel himself, soaking the dildo as he worked into Jon's body.

A palm pressed against the headboard as Jon pushed back against Martin, mouth hanging open as he painted his and Martin's skin with long pulses of come. The thick blush around his cheeks, his eyelids sliding almost shut, he was beautiful, just--

Martin pushed in hard and just worked his hips, rubbing the cock into a viciously sensitive spot inside himself until he was following, struggling to keep his eyes open to drink the sight of Jon wrecked under him. It was good, they were so fucking good like this.

He was shaking, aftershocks like earthquakes coming in waves as he tried to unlock his body, tried to move. Everything was shivering at the corners, and Martin fumbled to get a hand under himself, to ease backward. He'd bent so far over Jon, it was difficult to coordinate and slide out of him.

As soon as he managed it, the pressure inside eased, and Martin let out a tense noise like a sob. It was _ so much _, he felt so much it was verging on too much at breakneck speed. He reached for a buckle, slick fingers slipping over it.

"Martin." The bed shifted as Jon sat up. "Let me help, let me."

Martin leaned on Jon, nuzzling his hair mindlessly.

One side came unbuckled, then the other picked loose. The last one, around his waist, unlatched, and Martin fumbled a hand down to grab the harness by the metal ring and pull it off, throwing it… somewhere. Didn't matter.

"Should I…" Jon trailed off, but Martin felt him grab the protruding end of the dildo, and he pulled gently.

It was wet as it came loose, and Martin heard it hit the floor as well, the faint sound of droplets scattering from it to the hardwood floor. That would be a mess to clean up.

A mess for the Martin Blackwood of the future. Not now. Now, Jon helped Martin lay down, arms tight around him. They cinched together on their sides, Martin continuing to nestle against Jon's body, face against his thoroughly wrecked hair.

Jon kissed every inch of Martin he could reach, dissolving into dragging his mouth lazily against Martin's skin. It felt warm and good and comforting as Martin resettled into his body.

He didn't realize his eyes had been closed for a while until he opened them again, weary.

Breathing against Martin's jaw, Jon looked just as tired, his eyes open to slits. When Martin looked at him, he lifted his head with enormous effort, staring down at him.

"Hi," Martin rasped.

"You _ menace, _ I feel like someone's struck me with a bat," Jon said in an equally rough voice. "Albeit in a good way, but _ my god." _

Giggles erupted out of Martin. "We-- we should clean up. A bit."

"In the morning," Jon said.

"Jon, if Peter finds you--"

"If that living fog machine comes anywhere near us, I'll _ obviously _ beat him over the head with the best of your jade toy collection, so he'd better not."

Martin started hiccuping, covering his eyes with his arm as he shook. "You, you're out of your mind. How did I never notice?"

Fingers ran through Martin's hair, and caught midway through, too thick with mussed curls. Jon made a soft noise and kissed Martin's arm until he moved it, then kissed him, close mouthed and lingering.

They kept at it until Jon pulled back and mumbled, "Cold. Let's get under covers already, god." So, they did, rearranging and settling into a lazy sprawl. Martin was tucked against the wall while Jon curled around his side, one hand reaching around to hold Martin's shoulder.

Instead of falling asleep, Jon started snickering quietly.

"What?" Martin whispered.

He could feel Jon's smile against his skin. "You make very good tea," he said, sounding so honestly happy, it made Martin's eyes sting.

Pressing his nose against Jon's hair, he said, "Go to sleep."

* * *

In the morning, they were sore and sticky, and desperately in need of a shower. They cleaned up the mess, and Jon sat in a pair of Martin's pajamas as they drank tea and Jon explained what the hell happened to his ribs, and Martin had a fit over it, much to Jon's strange delight.

It was a good morning, and Jon went without complaint as Martin shooed him away. The _ thing _ between them settled, comfortable. Maybe Martin would try to put a name to it soon. Talking about it was starting to seem less terrifying. Warm anticipation unfurled its tendrils through Martin's body.

It had warmed him so, he didn't notice the cold until the fog rolled in and swallowed the world around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peter lukas: hello i detected on my mobile someone was Happy and i've come to ruin everything
> 
> this chapter is 7000 words and about half is just the sex scene. i'm not proud but i'm also not _not_ proud? 
> 
> It's like tea, y'all.


	6. threats and promises

The image was a familiar recollection, a piece of the past superimposed over the present. A grey sky, a chill in the air, and a man coming from behind and offering his coat.

"Really, it's a shame," Peter Lukas said as he draped his heavy coat around Martin's shoulders. "By now, the Lonely shouldn't affect you so much. Well, if you had tended to it more dutifully, you'd be more prepared."

Martin pulled the naval coat closed around himself, shivering violently. It was wretchedly cold in the fog, cutting into him like knives, an icy feeling beginning to flood his bones. It was a type of cold that made it hard to _ think, _ his focus almost entirely on the way it dug into him.

"Let's get those feet moving," Peter said, his arm a heavy weight around Martin's shoulders as he guided him away. "It's when you stand too still that it gets you. Let's keep moving."

Nodding, Martin let himself be led away, into the Lonely.

"Where are we going?" Martin thought to ask.

"A fair walk from here. The passage through Forsaken will protect our journey, but we'll be walking a while."

The vague shadowy shape of the Institute faded into the fog, and transitioned into something much more ephemeral. There were cobblestones for a while, then looming trees, then a long beach with gently rolling waves that broke up the quiet with a gossamer veil of white noise. The landscape changed, phase to phase, so gradually Martin couldn't pinpoint the borders between one area and the next.

Walking was such an autonomous action, such a product of muscle memory, when Martin's steps flagged he felt a curl of anxiety. Putting one foot ahead of the next was conscious effort, and he looked often at his feet, as if he were constantly heading down a set of stairs, liable to misstep and crash down.

The ground was some sort of dune with silt and loose sand that gripped Martin's dress shoes when he staggered and nearly fell. He dropped to one knee before Peter caught and bodily hauled him back upright, pulling him to sway into Peter's side.

"Best you hold on tight, or it'll swallow you up," he said, and wrapped a firm hand around Martin's wrist.

Shaken from his passive reverie, Martin looked up at Peter. "Right. Peter, what're we doing out here?" He was recognizing how far they'd walked, to be in some strange cloudy phantasmal desert, as the shock of the cold finally started to release its hold on Martin's mind.

There was a sorrowful expression to Peter's face as he shook his head, and pulled Martin back into movement. "I had really hoped we could do this properly. But, as I told you, I've never groomed someone for service before. Only drawn them into Forsaken and left them."

Martin looked sharply at Peter, though predictably the man wasn't looking anywhere but ahead, giving no sign of knowing Martin was there outside the hand shackled around his wrist.

Martin felt cold for a different reason now and licked his lips to wet them. "It's been an uphill battle, for sure."

"Quite!" Peter sighed. "I really though, deep down, we were getting along swimmingly for a few months there. Until, of course, that Archivist."

He needed to be very careful here, Martin realized. Mind racing, he nodded along slowly. "He, ah, he seemed to take it very personal, when I changed allegiances."

"Did he?" There was just a flicker of pale blue eyes, meeting Martin's for the space of a thunderclap before they were facing forward again. "I do wonder. Did he worry about losing you to The One Alone?"

"Obviously," Martin said. "I've hardly been in service to Beholding anymore. The only statements I read were the ones relevant to the Extinction, a-and I've not been _ watching _ anyone, have I?" He frowned. "Sort of the whole deal, not taking interest. Isolating."

"It's good to know you've done your best in these dire circumstances," Peter said.

Martin had _ no idea _ how much of that was sarcasm and how much was genuine. Peter never sounded genuine, not even when introducing himself by name.

Swallowing, Martin said, "I'm sorry for my lack of progress."

"You care about my opinion of your progress," Peter said regrettably. _ Goddammit, _ thought Martin. "That's what I feared. I wonder if other avatars have such trouble with initiates. Probably not. It's a dreadful business for our kind, to have to… take interest." His voice was low with disdain for the idea.

"You've done the best you could," Martin offered. "Like, if you _ had _ been around all the time, it--it'd be much the same, I guess."

"Still, I did want to do this properly." Peter released Martin's wrist for a moment to gesture more emphatically, hands cupped in the air like supplication. "To cultivate that sort of selfhood! I think it's a marvelous gift to have."

The second Peter let go, the fog seemed to thicken between them, his form growing cloudier. A frightened panic lanced through Martin, and he wrapped his arms around himself, holding his elbows in a deathgrip. He gasped, and tasted thick air.

"Here, Martin," Peter said, and put his arm around Martin's shoulders again. "Bit of a lapse, entirely my fault. We don't want to lose you in here."

Shit, shit, _ fuck, _ was this how he was going to die? Peter goddamn Lukas affecting a tiny mistake and letting Martin vanish into this nothing place? Or actually being that much of an absentminded prick? Martin didn't even know if he could retrace his way back to the shadow of the Institute, didn't know how this place worked.

Peter gave him a small smile. Maybe he could sense it, the fear radiating off Martin. Did it sustain him like Jon and his statements? Was Martin a tasty thing to devour?

Tutting softly, Peter ran his hand up and down Martin's arm. "We'll have to take a different tact, I'm afraid. Just to ensure you're ready for the plan to come. I'm fairly confident that in time you'll grow into a proper avatar for our god, but."

"But," Martin said, heart sinking. "There's… another way?"

"Oh, yes. A ritual." He chuckled with good humor. "Think of it as a formal partnership. Sealing a covenant, bring the Lonely to you rather than you to the Lonely, see."

Being involved in a ritual was not Martin's plan. Granted, his own plans lately had been… lackluster ideas of how to slip free from his deal with Peter, how to broach the subject in a way more expansive than a stock Dear John letter of _ 'it's not you, it's me', _ but even before then, Martin had wanted no part of any rituals.

Now, he cast a nervous look around Forsaken, and wondered how fast it would swallow him if he said no.

As if aware of the turmoil in Martin, Peter looked askance at him. "Not getting cold feet there, are you?"

"No," Martin said. "Tell me what I have to do."

Peter did.

It would have been funny any other day, any other setting. It was absurd, the wind up for a joke.

Any other day.

Martin was silent, not trusting himself to say anything. After an eternity of being drawn through the Lonely, the landscape changed. The fog dissipated to a low curl around their feet, and a grand mansion stood ahead of them. It was night, though it'd been morning when the fog had taken Martin, and the house windows shone like ghost lights left on a stage. Empty, yet very much not.

Peter didn't say anything, and Martin didn't need him to. He knew where he was.

* * *

When Jon lost track of Martin's location, the gap in his awareness bothered him, like a sore elbow he just couldn't keep from knocking into every corner and every table he passed, but otherwise he… let things be.

He knew the signs already, that when the tether of his attention unmoored from Martin's presence, it meant Lukas was paying a visit. Given what he'd gleaned in the past about Lukas, a part of Jon was _ very _ eager to meet the Interim Head of the Institute, had some very _ pointed _ questions ready for the monster who so rarely deigned to visit.

But, Jon also knew… Martin might be ready to break things off. Over the past month, the tenor of his excuses and reasonings had shifted. Once, Martin had proclaimed this was the only way, that he had to do this, that nothing would shake him from this arrangement.

But lately, when Jon pressed, Martin spoke of his relationship with Lukas differently. That it wasn't so much he didn't want out, but he didn't know the way out yet. Always that, always _ yet. _

It gave Jon a small kindling of hopefulness, that Martin was just biding his time for the right opportunity to leave, and then… Jon would have him again.

Which, of course, Jon had spent more than a reasonable amount of time wondering what would happen from there. He'd spent so long wanting Martin back, what would he do once he had him?

He wasn't sure, honestly. Only that the thought settled in him like a cat's purr, the potential it held. Being able to help Martin with his Extinction research, having Martin there to run some interference around the Archives, and the-- the relationship things. That would be nice. Jon didn't know what was the prescribed 'next' step to things, but he did want to find out.

So, Martin vanished, and Jon paused what he was doing to shut his eyes and breathe, keeping calm. As he so readily insisted, Martin could handle himself and handle Peter Lukas. Jon would wait a reasonable amount of time before worrying.

Three hours later, Daisy found him in his office, his eyes squeezed shut, his senses flung so far from his body, he could barely see her.

She reached out and tapped a file folder against Jon's forehead. "Hey. Dekker statement. Grisly thing about this town wiped out by the Corruption. Might be interesting." She tapped him again. "Jon."

Jolting, Jon clapped his hands over his face, rubbing vigorously. For a moment, it felt like his atoms would fling apart. "Dammit."

"What are you doin' now?"

"Looking for Martin," Jon answered. "I lost track of him hours ago. He's never been missing this long." He pushed back from his seat, stood, and immediately wobbled on uncertain legs. "Dammit!"

Daisy put a hand on Jon's shoulder and steadied him. "You look like shit."

He glared up at her. "I need to-- to go find him, if he can be found. I don't _ like _ this, he's never gone more than an hour."

A belaboured sigh escaped Daisy, and her grip turned into a fist tight in his collar. "We'll take the elevator. I'll be stunned to see you take a staircase today without injury." Tugging once, she let him go, leading the way. "Let's go find your boyfriend."

He didn't bother protesting, because it was useless, and he didn't want to have the conversation with Daisy about how he and Martin hadn't _ had _the conversation, and there were much more pressing matters at hand.

The elevator was old and narrow, probably barely wide enough for compliance, and had one of those sliding accordion grates. Daisy hauled it shut and pressed the button for the top floor.

Upstairs, a terrible thought occurred to Jon, and he led the way directly to Martin's hidden suite, just needing to check there first, just needing to be certain.

It was locked. Hissing angrily, Jon pressed his ear to it. He heard nothing. Or was it soundproofed? "Daisy, can you--"

She pulled out her keyring and isolated a narrow, study rod that hung there. Kneeling, she pushed the rod into the lock, rocking it around at various angles as she tried to turn the handle.

It popped open after seventeen seconds, and Jon pushed his way in.

Empty. A breath whooshed out of Jon, raw intense relief, and he slumped against the frame.

"What's this about?" Daisy asked, giving him a look.

"Honestly… glad we didn't find him here, that's all. Just some… some inklings I thought I noticed. I'm quite happy to be wrong." He cleared his throat. "We should keep looking."

Daisy leaned in and inhaled deeply, like Jon imagined a hound would, getting a scent. "Is that an en suite bathroom?"

He laughed. _ "I know, _ lets move on."

"No wonder he's been avoiding us, who'd want to share that," she muttered, but flicked the door lock and closed it behind them as they moved on.

Nothing in the broom closet, nothing in the Head Office, nor in any number of the other offices they checked. There was no sign of Martin around, not so much as a desk with a thermos of coffee left on it, much to Jon's growing dismay.

"Where the hell has Lukas taken him," Jon growled as he slammed the door of the seventh office they'd checked. Then, with fraying desperation, he called, "Martin!"

"Shut up," Daisy said.

"No, this is-- it's bad, we need to find him. Martin!"

"Shut it for a second," Daisy said with more ferocity, and walked off down the hall. It was the longest corridor, running most of the length of the building.

Halfway down its length, Daisy stopped hard, turned on her heel, and stalked back a few paces. Her eyes were narrow, scanning through the air, her nostrils flaring.

Jon hurried to follow her. "Daisy. _ Daisy." _

"Something's here. Was here," she told him curtly, inhaling with her mouth open, tasting the air.

Ignoring her, Jon took hold of her shoulders. "Daisy. Don't listen to the blood."

"There is something _ here, _ Jon!" she snapped, trying to pull out of his hands.

He held on tighter. _ "Daisy, _ this is not worth you slipping! You've done enough. Don't listen to the blood, say it." He shook her, hard. "Say it!"

She started to snarl at him, arms coming up to knock his hands free. Something less animal broke through her eyes, her brow furrowing. "I… Listen to the quiet." Her body shook all over and she shut her eyes. "Don't listen to the blood, listen to the quiet." Her tongue flicked across her lips, and she nodded. "Right. I've got it. But there is something different here. It smells like a different kind of air." She inhaled again. "Watery air, like rain's comin'."

His hands slid down her shoulders until the contact naturally broke. Turning, he looked around. This stretch of corridor was between doors, a blank space. He tried to smell the same thing Daisy apparently did, but it was just recycled A/C to him, and the normal chill that accompanied the top floor.

He thought, perhaps, there was a faint breeze. It was subtle, the direction unclear.

"You think he's taken Martin into the Lonely," Daisy said bluntly.

Jon nodded and breathed out, "Yes. I don't know why. Though I-- I fear it could be my fault."

"Hmn. Blame's not useful right now," she told him. "What do we do now?"

There weren't many options. Really, just the one, though it filled Jon with a deep abiding dread. "I'm going after him. I got him into this, I'll be damned if I'll just leave him to it."

Rocking back on her heels, Daisy looked him over. "You think that's wise?"

"Ha, _ no, _ not even slightly. I'll still do it though."

"Right. Seems like a deathwish, but you've got a knack for those, I figure." She tapped her fist against his arm. "If you managed to get me out, then let's see how you fare with someone you actually like."

With a stung expression, he looked up at her. "Daisy. You're my friend."

"I know. Don't get sappy on me." She handed over the folder from before. "Statement. In case you need a snack later. Sure you will, heading out on a suicide mission like this." Her lips pressed together, white. "I'd… I'd come with, but."

"Basira would kill me for taking you and then kill you for going with me," Jon completed with a wry grin. "Oh, I know. And I can do this. I know I can."

Once, Jon had been interested in the concept of anchors in relation to the Lonely. He knew they existed, were a solid form of metaphysical connection in this strange world he found himself in. The idea at the time had been to become an anchor for Martin, to help him survive Lukas' influence.

Now, Jon hoped he could flip it. Could find his way to Martin.

"Daisy. Thank you." He met her eyes solemnly.

"You survived a building collapsing and a trip into that fucking coffin,' Daisy said. "Don't let this bastard kill you."

"Try to avoid an inglorious death, understood." Jon smiled best he could.

It slipped from his face as he turned to face the approximate direction of the wrongness in the hallway. He knew something was here. He _ Knew _something was here, and pushed against it with his gaze.

Some things withstood being watched. Some things reveled in it. The Lonely _ hated _it, bent and tore from the pressure of observation. He stared into it, and felt it flinch.

A hairline fracture in reality started to seep a dense fog into the hallway. The plumes spilled to the floor and rolled around their feet, obscuring the ground in seconds.

Giving Daisy one last backward glance, Jon walked directly into the Lonely.

* * *

The Lonely was cold. That was the first thing that Jon knew, and for a while it was the only thing he knew.

Icy needles spread over his skin, slipping in under his sleeves and through the neck of his shirt until they diffused across his body. Finding the thus-far unused zip of his jacket, he pulled it closed, pressed the snaps together to seal, and turned up the collar. It felt like bolstering against a losing battle with thermodynamics, but Jon did what he could, even bending to tuck his jeans into his socks, trying to seal off every gap in his armor against the Lonely.

Then, he walked, and reached out for Martin with everything he had.

Unlike back in the Institute, there was at least _ something _ here. It was faint, just a sense of direction as the crow flies.

It was all he had. It would have to be enough.

Death's other kingdom was wet. There was no rain, but the air was thick with it, the harbinger of coming storms, a constant dread. Damp permeated until Jon rubbed his fingers together, expecting collected dew. There was nothing, just pressure.

The air was _ thick. _ It resisted his movement, resentful as Jon put one foot in front of the other, staring ahead at the horizon line. It was so dim here, so desaturated and grey, that line seemed to bleed into the sky, the delineation smearing like ink before set.

Jon stared at it, willing it to solidify and imagining it with the faint glow of sunrise radiating from it. If he walked far enough, he would arrive somewhere.

Around him the world changed, climates shifting and metamorphosizing into bent trees like skeletal bones, a pier stretched over a emerald-black sea, a forest with thick undergrowth everywhere but Jon's path, and dull slate-colored hills of sand. But the air still weighed heavy, filling his lungs with something like sediment. Not enough to cough, but enough to make every step harder.

His concentration slipped, and the tether broke, like a kite string snapped and fluttered to nothing. For a moment, Jon staggered, fell to his knees, as if he could catch it, keep it aloft.

"Shit," Jon swore as his palms hit the ground. His fingers sunk an inch into the soil, cold as ice, stinging his skin. "Get up. _ Get. Up." _

His body jerked as he tried to heave himself upright. He was lead, solid in a world of distant shadows and mist. He was the only real thing left.

Clenching his hands in the soil, Jon rocked between his knees and his palms, trying again to move. But he was tired, and the damp had soaked in so far he could barely feel his face, barely any exposed span of skin. He'd moved beyond the shivering stage, his joints starting to lock.

He wrenched his hands from the earth and wrapped his arms tight around his chest. He wanted to warm himself up.

Instead, the mist pushed down until it was all he could see, and Jon was stuck in his curl, his knees sunk into the dirt, his body freezing into place like a statue in the dead of winter.

He exhaled hard, and saw his breath. Condensation? Or more of that goddamned fog?

He needed someone. That was how one survived the Lonely. They needed _ someone _ to hold onto.

Jon looked up into the thick fog and reached for Martin, a flung hook trying to tether him again.

It didn't find hold, and Jon squeezed his eyes shut. He'd been following Martin. He knew there'd been a clear path before. It couldn't just be _ gone. _

Perhaps it'd just been too long since Jon had taken a statement. The eagerness to get started, to follow Lukas and Martin, could've been his undoing, left in this place that was so very much like winter, because Jon had never, _ never _ learned to think before he leapt.

Shuddering, he bent forward, folding himself even smaller, desperate for any warmth at all. Anything to strike against him. Where had the fire in his ribcage gone? It had crackled and popped and burned in him for so long. All that was left were embers.

There was an audible click, and the slow sound of winding movement, tiny motors spinning. He didn't know if it was in his head or if it was real, and whether anything here in the Lonely could even _ be _ real.

Keeping his eyes safely shut, Jon inhaled sharply, heavy mist on his tongue. "St-statement of Jonathan Sims, th-the Archivist, regarding Martin Blackwood. Statement recorded directly from subject, wh-whenever fucking today even is!"

He sucked in a breath and tried to think. "Statement begins.

"I've always been terrible at this. It'll come as surprise to absolutely no-one that I'm terrible at this. Anyone who needs corroborating evidence need only speak to Georgie about it. She was the only other one. And I… I love her. I loved her, god knows, but it didn't feel at the time like I was immolating from the inside like a Roman candle!

"Fuck, I'm getting this wrong again already. A--all I know is that it's absolutely bloody _ freezing _ in this place, in this _ not-a-place, _ and I-- I-- I need to talk my way out. Talk my way through it. I don't know another way.

"I'm meant to be saving him. I always thought I would, which is a-- a hilarious fantasy. Such hubris. Here I am, storming off into danger like I have any business being someone's hero. I felt him. I could feel him off in the distance, and all I had to do was keep moving and somehow, _ somehow _, everything would be okay. As though if I laid eyes on him, I could free him. Just like that.

"It's very, ah. Very fairy tale, isn't it? Though now I fear I'm stuck in one of the dreary versions. Hans Christian off writing romantic tragedies as an act of self-flagellation. It's never _ really _ so simple.

"It's not even the right story. Though I can, ah. I see the similarities. Daisy's called me jealous, and I suppose I never thought of it that way because I've still not met the person I blame for taking Martin away. How can you be envious of someone when you don't even know their face? Which, also, point of fact, sort of… ignores Martin's agency in the matter? I know that. I know all that, I get it.

"But it's a bit Tam Lin, maybe. If I could reach him and hold onto him, then I could save him, I suppose."

Jon sighed hard. "What am I _ rambling on about? _ This is what I mean! I'm not good at this. Martin, god forbid you ever hear this, but you're not Tam Lin and I'm not Ariel, but saying it plain is-- is impossible. I keep hoping the rest is enough, that if I _ show you _ , then I don't need to say it, and then we can float in this middle space, this purgatory where I don't say it the wrong way, where I don't hurt you. Again, hurt you _ again. _

"I listen to all the tapes. God, you know that. Elias _ reminded _ you as much once, and I've never hated him more. Moments that should be just yours, I can't stop taking them and devouring them, it's sick. I know it's sick! And yet! And yet.

"I… I found one unlabeled in my hospital room. Just the tape, behind the lamp. I heard you.

"And I… failed you. You _ needed me _ and I failed you. For no particular reason either. I just hadn't decided to wake up yet. Selfish. If I'd woken up then, I could have helped you. I could have made you feel safe. I could have protected you from that treacherous son of a--

"Hnnngh. Hm. Hm hm. Not helpful. Maybe if I'd focused less on my little jealous fit I would have done something actually _ useful _ and we wouldn't be in this situation.

"The point is, you asked me then, if I had any power left in me, if I could still _ See you, _ to be there. To be there when you needed me.

"Martin," Jon said, opening his eyes and feeling the tether snap into place, the metaphysical red line that tangled in his ribcage and connected him to Martin.

"Martin, I see you."

Moving slowly, Jon pushed himself to his feet, picking up the recorder as he rose. It was faintly warm in his hands. "Statement ends," he murmured, pressing down the stop button before pocketing the thing. Another tape. Perhaps he'd give it to Martin someday.

But to do that, he had to find him. He set out again, focused on the gleaming ribbon through the Forsaken and keeping his feet moving. He was splattered with mud and was so cold he couldn't feel _ anything _ anymore, but he wouldn't stop.

The landscape stretched and stretched, but its reach wasn't infinite. Jon followed the trail until color began to seep reluctantly back into the world, heat spreading until the air was only chilly instead of murderously cold.

Jon walked until he came out of the woods, and stood at the edge of a grand estate, an imperious old house ahead of him like a beacon, like a challenge.

The final steps were the worst, Jon's strength flagging badly as he walked along a garden path and across the paving stones and up the towering three steps between him and the door.

He didn't bother to knock. The remainder of his energy was a fuse burning down to nothing, and every second felt precious.

Hauling the doors open with everything he had left, Jon staggered across the threshold, into Moorland House, and collapsed to the stone floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the only chapter tree did not beta for me, so any mistakes are mine and the prince of betas is blameless.
> 
> i've said it before but peter lukas is horrifically fun to write. he's such a specific brand of manipulator, its easy to play with. 
> 
> probably two chapters left to this.


	7. blue and green and red all over

There was plenty of downtime before Martin was let out again. He spent much of it looking into the mirrors in his room.

The Lukases apparently liked mirrors. He supposed that made sense. The eight foot tall claw-footed easel by the wardrobe looked like it cost literally thousands of pounds. It reflected much of the room, and Martin himself as he found the clothes set out for him as he'd slept, and slowly dressed.

Looking into the mirror, Martin felt like he was in a strange period piece movie, caught in some massive shot, standing with everything around him carefully positioned to emphasize how alone he was.

Shaking his head, Martin dressed in a powder grey cardigan with false buttons (annoying, even rich people couldn't avoid false buttons and pockets?) and black jeans so expensive the material felt strange. Like denim interbred with silk. It was conspicuous and uncomfortable.

Sighing, Martin fingercombed his hair and looked at his reflection. He supposed it almost suited him. It made his eerie blue eyes pop. Like a black and white photo that had been colorized. He looked strange to himself.

He tried the door, not for the first time. It remained locked.

If Peter expected him to knock or something, to beg to be released, then Peter really did underestimate him.

Instead, Martin piled the pillows on one side of the bed and sat propped up, looking outside. Kent was grey and foggy. Of course it was. The bed was close enough, he could unlatch the window. It was silent on its hinges as it swung outward. No screen separated him from the gentle rain outside.

He looked down. The bedrooms were three storeys high. Was that purposeful? Did the Lukases have trouble with runaways before? If he attempted a grand escape, it would be straight down to a broken leg or two. Only an idiot would try.

Across the lawn (or, rich people didn't have _ lawns _ , they had _ grounds _ or something) was a sloping hill, just at the edge of his vision. Upon it was another building, freestanding with a peaked roof and grand double doors. It stood in Martin's line of sight, far off, but as he stared at it, he got the uncanny feeling it was coming. Closing in on him.

A twinge that was too exhausted to be fear hit him. He sat and waited. There wasn't anything else to do.

He hoped Jon remembered him fondly.

The thought was a little too intense to touch for too long. At least Jon probably knew now. He remembered laying in his bed, looking at Jon's flushed face as he said some truly ridiculous things, seized by the glow of orgasm. It had made him _ silly, _ his mouth running, his cheeks dark, his smile easy.

Once, Martin had thought he'd mourned Jon, and that was enough. At least now, he got to see the rest of him. It'd been worth it, he thought. With that knowledge held close to his heart, he could handle his failure. He might not survive Peter's plans intact, but he'd done his best and hopefully Jon _ knew _ now why Martin did it. That Martin loved him.

It was good Jon wasn't here. Was safe. That made it all worthwhile, Martin thought. The effort meant something in the end.

The door opened. Martin looked up, and saw Peter standing there, his counterfeit smile already neatly in place.

"Ready?" he asked.

"If I must," Martin mumbled, and Peter waited until Martin rose to meet him.

* * *

Back in university, when Jon was with Georgie, there had been a test week that put them through hell, sleepless and studying and finishing papers to turn in. Directly afterward, they'd sprung for a fancy hotel room. It was the off-season, so the extravagance was a little more reasonable. Though by the time the room service bill came, it was remarkably less so.

They'd spent most of the time in their fancy room, Jon sitting by the balcony with his Silk Cuts while Georgie ordered films to watch and tilted the TV off center so they could watch together, disparaging the trite, limited selection before picking something American and obnoxious.

Even that room, a perfect model of the hospitality industry and their lodging for two nights, had felt more lived-in and genuine than the room he woke up in after falling unconscious within the front doors of Moorland House.

The bedroom Jon woke up in felt almost like a museum exhibit. Bronzed wood and cream leather shades and a rug that seemed at once very expensive but also devoid of any color statement. The tall window allowed grey light to pour in across the blue and silver bed linens. For a moment, he thought he could see swirls in the light, not dust motes but something else. Much more concerning.

Bracing himself, Jon sat up in bed. A brief feeling of vertigo took him, and he breathed deep and steady through the sensation until it faded.

His mouth was dry. He was hungry. He didn't know what day it was.

He held out a hand, as if the tether were something he could touch, and not just a faint feeling of heat, smouldering coals braided into a cord that connected under his ribcage.

"Martin," Jon breathed, and shoved himself out from under the heavy blankets.

The floor was cold. He saw a pair of slippers were set out, next to a neatly folded set of grey silk pajamas. The colors matched perfectly.

On a brass rack were two wooden clothes hangers. One had a three piece suit with a finely embroidered vest. There seemed to be subtle eyeball patterns integrated into the paisley design. Someone thought they were _ quite _ funny.

On the other hanger were his own clothes, freshly laundered. He pulled them on, patted his pockets for the tape recorder. It remained, heavy in his jacket.

He'd been put up in a room on the second floor. Outside, the mansion was utterly silent around him. No signs of life, just long corridors that lead to more identical doors and to enormous staircases with ornate banisters.

A runner of thick rug ran down the center of the entire house, it seemed. Jon found it deadened his steps as he wound his way downstairs.

He was certain to be lost in this place if not for the tether. The anchor led him along, to the ground floor and eastward. Finally, the hardwood was uncovered, and Jon enjoyed the way his footsteps bounced off the walls and echoed slightly with his stride.

The lead brought him to a set of doors, which were completely unremarkable. No sound passed through, no sign of life. He wouldn't have known to check there if not for the feeling.

Grabbing the silver handles, Jon twisted them and pushed, stepping in as the doors opened.

The second he walked in, a bludgeon of sensation struck him. It was an oppressive weight, a thick atmosphere that resisted his movement further in. All at once, he was reminded of stepping into the wrong classroom in school, the heads turning, the sense of _ You Shouldn't Be Here. _

Gasping, Jon took a moment to gather himself under the leaden mantle of unwelcome that hit him. Hand shaking, he reached up to press the heel of his hand into his brow, trying to push past the drowning feeling.

It subsided slowly, as gazes diverted away from him. Slowly, he could fucking _ see _ again through the miasma. There were a good number of people gathered here, in what appeared to be a conservatory room.

A lot of people, dressed in fine blues and silvers, were scattered around the room, under a glass ceiling that slowly streaked with the drizzle of rain outside. Plants were set in orderly rows, along with some small trees shaped to bend with the curvature of the walls.

The Lukas family and their guests stood… apart. The din of conversation that should have filled such a place with this amount of people was simply quiet. Jon could see a few people speaking, the largest group a grand total of three people, but no sound carried.

It seemed a miserable party. For a second, Jon wondered if this was simply how the Lukases spent their days: languishing in a room and seeing who could be the most lonesome and disaffected.

Then, Jon saw Peter Lukas for the first time.

On a pristine cream-colored two-seat sofa sat a broad man with a friendly curve to his lips and a thick, perfectly groomed beard the color of shadow over snowfall. He sat like a man on a throne, his arm stretched across the seat back, his other hand cradling a crystal glass of liquor.

As Jon watched him, he noticed the smile was fixed in a way that reminded him of nothing so much as Nikola Orsinov's painted grin.

It remained still as Lukas turned his head and leaned in to say something into Martin's ear.

Jon was moving again before his brain recognized the decision. Martin was sitting at Lukas' side, his hands resting demurely on his lap, his eyes lidded, Peter Lukas speaking into his ear close enough to stir the faded brass of his hair. Jon saw _ red. _

There was time for Lukas to shift his gaze to Jon, to show his teeth, before Jon stood over him, burning like hot metal.

"Peter Lukas, I presume," Jon said, the sound low from his chest.

There was a blink before Martin's eyes-- icy blue again, god, _ goddammit-- _ lifted to Jon. They widened, oversized with a blatant glassy fear as he took in Jon. "No," he said softly, intently. His body tensed, as if he was about to stand.

Lukas' arm slipped from the seat back and rested on Martin's shoulder. "And you are our unexpected guest, I presume." His teeth were perfect and white. "I trust you slept well, Archivist."

"Jon," Martin said, head shaking. Lukas' hand pressed firmer.

"Martin," Jon said. He let their eyes meet, trying to convey his conviction, that they were going to leave this place. Then, back to Lukas. _ "What do you want with Martin?" _ he asked, pushing his will into his voice, the words rounder and thicker on his tongue.

The effect was immediate, and not what Jon hoped for. A wave crashed into him as every eye in the room focused on him. The ground bowed under him like a tightrope, suspended over freezing cold. Every muscle in Jon's body locked with fear, with the perfect knowledge that if he took a step, if he so much as shifted his feet, he would drop through the veil and into Forsaken, and it was _ upset with him _ for daring to leave the last time.

It hung there, and then stopped, and Jon dropped to his knees, panting, hands fisted and pressed against his chest as he caught his breath.

Martin shoved off the sofa and knelt with Jon, grabbing his arms. His touch was cold, but familiar. Something gleamed on his hand, but Jon took the moment and leaned his head against Martin.

Peter Lukas took a sip of his drink. "You're not here under the best of circumstances, Archivist. You're an interloper, an intruder. Fair to say, it's by the grace of Elias that you've not fallen into a quiet place." His smile vanished, as sudden as if it were never there. "Arrangements could still be made."

Martin's hand slid around Jon's shoulder to touch his spine. The elation such a simple touch gave him was intense, and Jon shuddered. "Peter, you swore to me."

Lifting his glass to his lips, Peter said in a light, musing tone, "I suppose that's true. We have made certain promises to each other, haven't we."

Martin flinched, bowing his head. "I'll take care of it," he said, and started to help Jon to his feet. "Jon, _ come on, _ up."

"I am," Jon said slowly, "not done."

"Yes, you are," Martin told him, and drew him away, back towards the door.

Past him, Jon could see Peter fucking Lukas smiling again, vacant as a chasm of gleaming knives.

Then the doors swung shut, and they were alone in the hallway.

"Not here," Martin said, letting go of Jon and walking away.

Jon hurried to match his steps, following at his side. He could see Martin's hands clenching and unclenching. He suspected it was anger.

"You're angry with me," Jon hazarded.

The laugh out of Martin was sharp and bitter. "You figured that out?"

Tucking his hands into his pockets, Jon stepped into Martin, letting their shoulders bump. A sharp icicle glare cut the space between them. "If you could enlighten me to what I've done this time, I know you prefer to leave me in the dark, but--"

"Oh, _ fuck off, _ Jon," Martin snapped, whirling on him. "You have no idea what you've done, do you?"

"I came here for you!" Grabbing Martin's sleeve, Jon spun him, forcing him to a halt. "I'm here for you, and I will find a way to get you home, Martin."

"You won't," he said back, with as much conviction. "You need to _ get out of here _, Jon, before they decide to just kill you." His fingers moved again, clench and unclench. There was something there, but it wasn't as important as what Martin was saying right now.

"And just leave you? Leave you to have Peter Lukas swallow you whole?" He took Martin's hands, forcing their palms together and holding on. "You were ready to leave him, you were going to tell him no."

"Yeah, well, that train's left the station," Martin said with horrible humor, a forced light candor. "When he… when we came here, we came through Forsaken."

"I know," Jon said. "I followed you through."

Martin leaned back, his expression slipping into confusion. "You… what?"

"I followed you," Jon said, and used their joined hands to press Martin's against his chest. "I'm afraid we're anchors. I put considerable effort into it. Meant to be for the opposite thing, actually, to pull you from the Lonely. But it let me find you. It helped me survive."

His throat moved as he swallowed, looking pained and a little scared again. "Jon." Martin shut his eyes and inhaled deeply. "That… that doesn't matter."

"The _ hell _ it doesn't--"

"When Peter led me here, he took me through Forsaken, and made it _ quite clear _ that I--" He licked his lips. "It's this ceremony or it’s Forsaken for me. Peter will have me either way. I-- I-- I prefer this. So it'll be _ for _ something." He smiled, wanly. "I did mean to leave. I-- I missed my chance."

"What is this for," Jon asked, stroking his thumb against Martin's hand. It seemed a paltry comfort in the face of everything, but he wanted to try. "Extinction?"

"I think so. Which would be nice, if it means something," Martin admitted. "And it hardly matters. It'll happen regardless."

  
"It doesn't have to," Jon said, pleaded. He tightened his grip, already feeling Martin slipping away. "Come with me."

"Jon." Martin shut his eyes, ducking his head for a moment, and his breath sounded watery for a moment. "I knew going into this that it was a good way to get killed." Jon tried to cut in, but Martin careened on, "And I was right, come to find out! He's going to use me or kill me, Jon, and the best thing I c--can get out of this is keeping you out of it." He smiled, and Jon _ hated _ the way a wry warmth seeped into it.

"Martin, don't say that," Jon interjected quickly. It hurt, it was a thunderclap of fear in his body to hear Martin so resigned.

"If you go, he won't follow you. I think." A tiny, terrible huff of laughter escaped him. "But right now? If you stay, you're going to get yourself killed. You're… collateral. Or maybe leverage. So." Lifting their hands, Martin kissed Jon's knuckles, then began the process of prying Jon's hands open and off him. "You need to go, while you can."

"I won't," Jon said, even as it sounded petulant to his ears. "I refuse. I'll stay until I think of something."

"It'll be over tomorrow," Martin said, and with a final step back let go, forced Jon to let go. "Go back home. Watch over the others. Be _ safe, _ Jon, please. So this was worth something."

Jon reached, but Martin turned and started up the staircase, ascending briskly.

There had to be a way to make Martin stop, to reconsider, to stay. After the last months so close to him, Jon _ should _ have known what to say to bring him back, some wisdom learned from long lunches in Martin's office or the stolen moments in bed or in the fucking closet or from the continual soft shock in his face when Jon came back again and again and again.

Jon's mind was a hoarse scream, wordless and helpless as he slowly sat on the stairs, staring at his shoes as the cold closed in around him.

* * *

Time passed, until Jon's thoughts were caught in a spiral, like a metal ball spinning down, losing momentum and about to settle at the bottom of the bowl with the thought _ perhaps I should go, the door is just over there. _

A bright, jovial voice smashed the peaceful silence that cloaked him. "That was _ quite _ a show you put on, Archivist! I daresay it's more excitement than these halls have seen since their last funeral!"

Jerking like an electric shock, Jon looked up from his morose staring at his knees and up at the man leaning on a walking stick at the bottom of the stairs. He was short and lean in a way that brought to mind carrion birds, and grinned in a way that seemed opposite of Lukas' smile, drenched to the gums in good humor.

"Do I know you?" Jon said, voice tight like he'd been crying. Which, he hadn't. Not yet anyway. A hit of intuition seized him and he frowned. "I know you."

"Oh, I should hope so! If it were all Annabelle and Mr. Hopworth and wretched old Amherst, your work would be frightfully dull." He stepped forward enough to set his cane on the lowest step, and crossed his arms over the top of it, as if he sat behind a desk. "Can you guess my name, Archivist?"

Jon sniffed, and inhaled ozone. "Fairchild. Simon Fairchild, what…" His eyes narrowed in deep suspicion. It was enough he was in the Lukas Family home. _ "What are you doing here?" _

Fairchild rolled his neck and shoulders. "Ooh. That does have a, hmmm. A menthol-y feeling to it, doesn't it? Like the way your skin goes numb during a long plummet." He waved his hand at Jon, just a twirl of his wrist. "As I'm sure you recall from your teatime with the late Mr. Crew."

Jon opened his mouth to ask again.

Fairchild tutted. "I'm getting there, Archivist. I move at my own speed, and woe betide anyone who attempts to alter me. What am I doing here? I'm speaking to you, of course. You perhaps mean _ why _ am I here, in the Lukas household?"

Teeth grit, Jon said, "Yes. That."

"He was much better at this, you know," Fairchild said, and jerked his chin upward, toward the stairs. "Absolutely lovely fellow, I can see why you're so possessive. Peter, as well, I suppose."

"Martin?" Jon had no idea what to do with this implication. "You've met Martin?"

"He and I had an invigorating chat, yes. Bit feisty, isn't he?" With an utterly disturbing wink, Fairchild went on, "You look like you've been on the receiving end of that tongue. I know the feeling."

Impatience cracked in Jon. _ "Why are you here?" _

"Fine, fine!" He sighed. "Mr. Blackwood was a much better conversationalist. Ah, well. Probably not for much longer, not with Peter's plans." Another soft tutting noise. The affection was so heavy-handed, Jon wanted to punch him. "It's certainly odd, isn't it? I enjoy a familiarity with the Lukases. Money often finds kinship with money, obviously. But I'm not exactly on the guest list for these sorts of events, no." He chuckled softly. "I'm just the plus-one this time. I imagine he picked me to get a rise out of Peter, to be honest. Personally, I just enjoy being an… oh, a rogue element, a spanner lobbed into the delicate machinations of this family's theatrics." He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "They do love their little ceremonies. As if The One Alone cares a solitary pence coin about how many candles are on the altar."

"What ceremony is happening?" Jon put his hand on the banister and got to his feet. "You mean to interfere?"

"Oh, no, not at all." Shaking his head, Fairchild grinned more. "They enjoy their silence and stillness, and I am…" He lifted his eyebrows. "Neither, really! I plan to _ have fun, _ but interfering genuinely would upset Peter, and he would sulk."

"Is it a Ritual?" God, no, if Martin was some component to the Lonely's attempt at entering the world…

"Peter blew his chance at _ that _ quite spectacularly a bit ago. Long story, absolutely hilarious if you can get it out of someone in the know. No, this ceremony is much more common around the Moorland House, I believe." The skin around his eyes crinkled. "The Lukases do know how to acquire spouses, it's quite the marvel."

"Excuse me?" Jon scoffed. "It's not-- Lukas wants Martin for-- for the Extinction, it's not--"

"Legally?" Fairchild tilted his head left and then right, weighing it. "It's a particularly esoteric marriage ceremony. It's function is to position dear Martin as a vessel for the Lonely, with Peter as his symbolic conduit. A rather brute force style of initiation. Not Peter's style, really. You'd never guess it, but he's subtle. Something must have gone _ truly _ awry here." An appraising look danced from Jon's shoes to his face. "But needs must, hm?"

Pivoting, turning, Jon reached and pulled the braided cord. It pulled taut, and he started upstairs, following it.

"Oh?" Fairchild called after him. "Is that it, then?"

"For now," Jon said, darkly. He could always come back and find him, if needed.

Behind him, he heard Fairchild tut loudly. "Archivists, all the same."

There was a ring. The detail had struggled to break past all the others Jon was focusing on, forcing through a deluge of panic and fear. Now, Jon thought of Martin's hands, pressed flat against his lap and caught in Jon's own, and realized the distracting glint that almost caught his attention was an ostentatious ring.

It wasn't an important detail without context. Context Jon now had.

If he stopped for even a moment to think about this, to try and figure out why _ this _ incensed him enough to say to hell with it all and follow Martin upstairs…

Well, he didn't, so it was a moot point. He followed the pull of his anchor and knew that he was physically incapable of accepting this, something in his bones and sinew and blood proclaiming a simple but implacable _ no. _

There was no plan. Jon had never been one for planning, and tended to follow along the outlines of others instead. He didn't know what he was going to say when he reached Martin.

The correct door, ironically, viciously, was the neighbor to his own. Martin's room was apparently sharing a wall with Jon's. Another instance of Lukas comedy, he was sure.

Very briefly, Jon considered knocking.

He decided that no good would come from giving Martin forewarning that he'd decided not to listen, and Jon gripped the door handle and let himself into the room.

A cursory, peripheral glance revealed a room almost identical to his own. A few different fixtures, but nothing outstanding. An extra mirror.

Far more pressing: Martin sat on the bed, his shoes discarded on the floor, his legs drawn up in a fold. In his arms, he held a pillow tight to his chest.

Stark tear tracks ran down his cheeks, the wet catching the grey light from the window. His eyes were tightly shut, and his body jerked in short, abortive motions as he fought to keep each sob locked inside.

Jon's heart cracked like dropped porcelain, fissures stretching through his body. His hand on the door slipped, letting it slide silently shut as he crossed the room. "Martin," he said, moaned in a low, distraught manner, tender and lost.

There was that lag time that Lukas' strange curse left Martin with, and Jon was reaching for him before he caught up with the fact someone was there. Martin stiffened, shocked as Jon touched his elbow, ran a hand up his arm, and bent over him. "Wh-- _ Jon?" _

Leaning in, Jon told him fervently, "It's going to be alright," and cupped his face, thumb brushing the lingering wet away. "God, Martin."

He bent and pressed his mouth to Martin's parted lips. And really, he couldn't leave. Not without this, the warmest thing he'd ever known.

Martin kissed back for three seconds before he whipped back. "Wh-what, no, Jon what are you d-doing here?" He pushed Jon back, flinging his pillow aside so he could move. He shifted along the bed, away from Jon. "You, for fuck's s--s--sake, Jon, you have to _ go!" _

"Well, I won't," Jon said sternly. "So we'll have to try something else."

Martin twisted away, scrubbing his face with the sleeve of his cardigan, darkening the dove grey. "This isn't-- isn't a joke or--"

"Am I laughing right now, Martin?" When Martin stood, Jon stepped into him, hand on his hip. "Nothing about this is funny, I assure you."

"Shut up, god." Martin's face twisted into a grimace before he seemed to smooth it out with great effort. "Should've known you wouldn't listen, you _ never _ listen to me. Not even s--something as plain as _ get out or you'll die." _ He lifted his eyes to Jon's, red limned and miserable. "Please, go."

"No." Jon bowed his head until Martin's curls brushed his forehead. "I really won't. I won't leave you. No matter the cost."

"The cost. The cost?" A strained hiccupy noise skipped past Martin's lips. "I'm paying the cost so you can survive, you great stubborn idiot! And you're throwing it away!"

"I don't think that's it at all. I've been thinking." He hadn't been thinking, but his mouth was on a roll, and it was the only thing he had in the moment, the hope it would lead him somewhere. "You're acting like this was some inevitability, that you tried to play this game with Lukas and just happened to lose, and now you want to take the consequences. All very noble and such."

Martin glared at him fiercely, angry and stung and flushed from tears, and Jon adored him with every fiber of his being.

"You're making yourself out to be a martyr. For…" He stumbled, as his throat clenched. "For me. You're doing all this for me, Martin, but the fact of the matter is _ I did this to you." _

Rolling his eyes, Martin said, "Get over yourself, Jon."

"As soon as you do the same," Jon threw back at him. "I did this as much as you. I was… jealous and scared, and I missed you so fucking badly sometimes it felt like my heart had been scrapped out of my chest." Swallowing down the knot in his throat, he went on: "Maybe if I stayed away, kept my distance, then… well, I don't know if it would have gone better. Maybe it'd be worse, because I-- I'm glad I ruined it and kept coming to you."

"Stop, Jon," Martin said, quieter, shaking.

"I can't." But he was running out of words regardless. "I can't go home, Martin, because without you, I don't think I have one. It's you. I need you with me." Lifting his hands, he tucked his fingers into Martin's hair, pushing until they caught.

Martin's face crumbled, and he inhaled hitching and pained. He fisted his hands in Jon's jacket and shoved him, but Jon held fast, and they only staggered together a few steps. "There's n-no reason for this," Martin said, fast and shallow. "You d-don't have to be here, okay, if you would just _ listen _ for once!" He pushed again.

Jon's hip caught on a heavy wooden table, and he pulled Martin in. No where to go, no easy way to force him out. "I'm leaving with you, or not at all."

"I don't want you to die because of me," Martin said between gulps of air.

Jon pressed their faces together, breathing. "The only way through this is together." He brought Martin in close, against him, manifest desire to just _ have Martin. _

With an agonized noise, Martin said, "It's _ not. _ That's the _ problem, _ Jon, god." Martin shoved their mouths together and bit Jon's lower lip. It hurt, right from the start, and Jon pushed back, kissed him softer, trying to gentle Martin.

Tremors were running through Martin's body, more tight hitched sounds. Jon's arms around him seemed too much for him to handle, and he wrenched away to press his forehead to Jon's shoulder, hands coming up to grip under his jacket.

Jon kissed his hair, breathed him in deeply.

Lifting his head, Martin fixed him with the same glare. Oh, how dare he refuse to leave Martin to his self-sacrifice? The nerve. Jon kissed his temple quickly, and rubbed another track of tears from his cheek.

Martin bit the fleshy ball of his thumb, and Jon let out an almost hysterical laugh.

"Not leaving you," Jon reminded him, sweet and mean. His next kiss was quick, a pulled trigger of a peck against Martin's mouth, and away again. Still, Martin nipped his chin, his hands tightening, his nails scraping Jon's skin.

"You are," Martin began, then stopped with an infuriated noise. Grabbing hold, he dragged Jon away from the table and across the room, cinched close until they fell on the bed together.

Something private and green-eyed and triumphant in Jon thought fucking Martin in Peter Lukas' house was a great idea. Every other modicum of sense he had knew the previous statement was an endorphin-fueled emotional lie. But that didn't stop him. He'd always had more momentum than sense.

The cardigan would have been easy to pull off over Martin's head, but Jon took two handful and popped the buttons anyway, throwing it onto what he hoped was the dustiest part of the floor.

Martin gasped against him and let out a shaky laugh. "You're… just an awful lot of trouble, Jon."

"Sorry," Jon said, and absolutely didn't mean it. He tried to catch Martin's hand, tried to get that gaudy rock off his finger.

Martin batted him away and rolled them, pulling at Jon's jeans, and fine, Jon let himself be distracted.

The best part, he felt--

there were two things, if he were completely honest.

First was the way the bed was set a little too away from the wall, or the headboard was not properly attached. Whichever it was, when Martin was straddling Jon and moving them together, at the apex of each wave, there was a distinct, dull _ thump _ noise as the wood collided with the wall.

Jon wondered if sound carried. God, he hoped so. Enough so that when Martin's rhythm faltered, his eyes fluttering gorgeously as he rested for a moment, Jon pitched up and rolled them. Carried right on.

Second: Martin's arms lay cast like scattered stones where he lay under Jon, his body warm and wet and open for Jon. All the well-intentioned ire spooled out of him, falling from his face and fingers and the line of his neck as he gazed up at Jon. His lips parted around Jon's name, a sigh just tinged with the sound.

When Jon drove into him hard and the headboard cracked against the wall and Martin's face suffused with a hot flush and his hand reached up to hold Jon's jaw in his palm, Jon thought if he could have Martin, he'd never be hungry again.

After, it was quiet. Jon was sore and completely thrilled to be. He decided not to climb off Martin and lay with his head tucked under Martin's chin.

Gratifyingly, Martin just sighed and slung his arms around Jon, hands linking over Jon's spine. Without a word, it was good. To be allowed this, to be warm and comfortable in another person.

He could feel every part of Martin. Including the laughter that started softly and wound up bright and a little wild.

It jostled Jon slightly, and he murmured a drowsy, "What? What's funny?"

"I uh." He giggled, delirious and delightful. "I think it's _ kind of _ bad form to sleep with someone else right before your wedding." His breath stirred Jon's hair. "That was really rude, honestly."

_ Good, _ Jon thought. Rubbing his cheek against Martin's chest, he said, "I don't care."

"Oh, I know _ you _ don't."

Lifting up, Jon looked down at Martin. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Martin just smiled and… his eyes were lovely greens and hazels again. Jon bent to kiss each one, with the light brush of closing lids against his lips.

They languished for a while longer, until Martin looked out the window. "It's getting on. We should… put in an appearance? Peter likely wants to know I told you off."

"You did," Jon said.

"For all the good it did."

They got up, washed up, and shared the strange intimacy of walking naked around a shared room for a while as Jon gathered his clothes. Martin examined his cardigan, gave Jon a sour look, and picked out another one, a dark blue jumper.

Body humming with courage, Jon said, "God, I hate you in blues."

"You are so petulant, Jon, honestly." He pulled on the jumper and picked up his trousers, examining them for damage next.

That ugly sapphire on his hand caught the light and Jon scowled. "Do they expect you to take his name?"

"Dunno." The trousers were apparently fine; Martin put them on next. "Hasn't really come up? I don't think my opinion of the whole affair matters much."

In the grand scale of horrible acts, not asking Martin's opinion of the arrangement ranked considerably less heinous than the whole _ forced marriage to the Lonely _ thing, but it still rankled. "Blackwood is a good name. Anyone should be glad to share it with you."

Martin shot him a small smile. "Somehow, I doubt the great house of Lukas would agree."

Jon was about to remark on the relative taste of the great house of Lukas, when the door opened.

Martin froze, a hitched gasp as he looked past Jon. His face went rapidly pale.

"I need a word with your Archivist, Martin," Peter Lukas said, standing in the frame. Smiling. The bastard as smiling.

Martin's hands caught Jon's, tight enough to bruise. "Peter, I--"

"Oh, I think there's not much to say." Lukas sighed, as if deeply disappointed. "No, best you stay here 'til morning when we're ready. You could consider this an intervention."

And it came fast this time. There was a second when Jon was still aware of Martin holding his hand and wrist, and then the sensation bled to simply a pressure, and then to nothing as he was flung into Forsaken.

He landed hard on the floor, on his side. The world was cold and grey around him, just a long empty hallway that looked like every other hallway in Moorland House.

Bracing himself, Jon began to sit up.

"I wouldn't," Peter Lukas said, and a weight like a frozen stone pressed Jon back down. "I'm not convinced leaving you here isn't well earned. Elias would be upset with me, but I must say, you've been a terrible guest."

Inhaling against the weight on him was hard, and Jon had to suck in air a few times before he felt able to speak. All the while, Lukas stood over him, staring down like he was an interesting insect, existing at his whim.

It might've been a good time to fake deference.

Jon said, "If you hurt him, I'll kill you."

Lukas sighed, and fog plumed out of his mouth. "Well, when you think about it, have I done anything to hurt Martin?" He shook his head sadly, shucking his hands into the pockets of his great coat. Jon was fairly sure he hadn't been wearing it before. "He came to me, and I have kept up my end of the bargain. Really, it was your intrusion that complicated matters. It was you that brought us to this venture." His face was a rictus of sympathy. "I very much didn't want to have to do it this way."

"Oh, shut up," Jon snapped. "You don't care about him, and really, I'm not sure you care about the Extinction."

"That's your opinion. And it's a hurtful one."

Jon rolled his eyes. "I wish it were. There's little I want more than to do unto you what you've put Martin through."

There was a single beat where Lukas' face twisted, a hint of the frustration that lurked under his disconnected mask and falsehoods. It was like a single flash of light from a distant lighthouse; there, and gone again. "You enjoy secrets, Archivist. I'll tell you one."

He bent at the knees, crouching down near Jon, his voice pitched low. "I like Martin. I don't think I've ever liked a person more in all my years. At least I have never cared enough about someone to invest in them as I have him." His smile was brittle. "I've done my best by him."

"Let him go," Jon said. "That's what actual caring means. Letting him go."

"Hm, no. No, I don't think so." He straightened again, his gaze leaving Jon. There was a feeling of dismissal.

Vividly, Jon thought of Lukas' hold on Martin as if it were razor wire wrapped around yielding flesh. And he knew he'd gladly tear his hands bloody ripping Martin free.

"I strongly suggest you go downstairs and purport yourself like a guest, Archivist. Have some drinks. Enjoy the conservatory." He sighed again, like this all was such a great _ inconvenience _ to deal with. "Keep this up, and you'll be dealt with like the intruder you are. And we both know Martin wouldn't like _ that." _

The Lonely didn't toss him out or release him. It dissolved around him, its existence thinning to tendrils and then to the technicolor of reality. It was so very close, waiting.

Lukas was gone. Or maybe he was just on the other side of things, watching Jon as he struggled to his feet.

He had to come up with something. Whatever Lukas had in mind for him, Martin would have it far worse.

For the time being, as he thought about what to do, Jon made his way back to the conservatory, his mind a blur of half-formed ideas. He needed a plan, needed a path of egress before this cold iron jaw closed around them both.

Avoiding everyone best he could (a simple task, no one here seemed much for _ mingling), _ Jon leaned against the wall and considered his options.

Deep in desperate fantasies of escape, Jon didn't notice someone approach until they leaned on the wall next to him. "Jonathan," Elias Bouchard said in a low, solicitous tone. "Lovely to see you. Keeping out of trouble?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well that was a lot huh
> 
> aside: the only person more fun to write than peter is simon. simon "why use three words when you can use ten" fairchild


	8. a black sky prickled with small lights

Jon looked at Elias, who stood not in the formless prison jumpsuit that suited a man of his position, but in a very narrowly cut suit, a navy that emphasized the fairness of him with alacrity.

Sighing, Jon shut his eyes. "Plus one."

"Simon was very eager to speak to you earlier, yes," Elias said in an airy tone, contemptuously ignoring the gravity of… where they were, the situation, the miasma of Lonely that hung around them. Jon knew immediately that their words were not traveling more than a meter from where they spoke. Just another isolated conversation amid a party of isolated conversations.

Returning his gaze to Elias, Jon opened his mouth to speak, to compel, to rip the answers he needed out of Elias.

Elias held up a finger. "A note of caution before you speak. We are both quite out of our element in this place. Take care how much… effort you expend. My understanding is you're _ barely _ a guest here, and nothing draws predators like the scent of a wounded, weak thing."

"I'm neither," Jon snapped.

_ "Yet," _ Elias said, relishing the word. "It's simple advice."

"What are you doing here? _ How _ are you here?"

"Attending the wedding of an old friend," Elias said primly. "The information I've provided to my captors has proven invaluable time and time again, so I've earned a weekend out for good behavior." His smile gleamed. "I'll be back in a cozy cell before too long, don't worry. But not before the wedding."

"Shut up," Jon snapped. "He's going to be a sacrifice against Extinction, it's not a _ wedding." _

"It is though," Elias muttered, and sipped his drink.

"Then— then are you here to see him off? To— to walk one of Beholding's own down the aisle?" Jon inhaled sharply and pushed: _ "Why are you attending this wedding?" _

The effort of compulsion was enormous, as if he had to push the words out through thick air that wished to arrest them. 

Elias watched placidly as Jon put his hand on the wall to brace himself. But he answered, "I'm here to ensure Peter plays fair. This place is beyond the scope of my vision, and I was concerned that without supervision, he might cheat."

"Cheat," Jon breathed. "Cheat at what?"

Tilting his head to the side, Elias seemed to consider his words very carefully. "There are certain arrangements, where disclosure means annulment." He pointed a finger directly at Jon, eyes serious. "An arrangement that might protect all participants, knowing and unknowing."

"Like me," Jon filled in instantly. He squinted. "Like… Martin?"

Elias sipped his drink again.

"You and Peter have an arrangement that includes Martin and I. One that can presumably be cheated." A strange calm was settling over Jon as he spoke. He laughed softly as some ideas began to form in his mind, knowledge slotting into bespoke slots. "Then… Well. His grooming of Martin all these months, it must be for something."

There was an eagerness to respond as Elias cut in. "Yes and no. It's been quite fascinating to watch, better than any serial show. Peter likely thinks he does care about Martin a great deal. But, that _ is _ the Lonely for you."

"Delusional?" Jon offered acidicly. 

"It's really a tragedy to ponder," Elias said, voice lowering to something conspiratorial. As if their every word were not swallowed into deaf distance around them. "A creature of the Lonely, when they to deign to care about a person even slightly, it's so monumental to them, they expect their target to… _ appreciate _ the rarity of the investment."

"That's not affection," Jon said. "He doesn't give a damn about Martin."

"Hardly matters. Loveless marriage is as old as marriage itself." It felt tailored to make Jon bristle, the idea of it. He ground his teeth, searched the room to see if Peter Lukas had returned. So far, no. It was hard to track how many people were around, but he felt the crowd was thinning.

"Can I stop it?" he asked.

"Of course," Elias said. "It's a _ wedding, _ Jonathan. Even under duress or pressure, the engaged parties must agree upon reaching the altar."

"Do you have a stake in it?" Jon asked. "If I stop it or not."

"Yes."

When Jon looked at him, waiting for more, Elias smiled and emphatically mimed zipping his lips. The playfulness of it was out of place and made something sour twist in Jon's gut. This was Martin's life, and it was a joke. A bargaining chip in their game.

"Ceremony is slated for the morning," Elias told him quietly. "Now, you could stalk around, wear yourself out expending your precious little energy in Moorland House."

"Lukas can't stand at the altar and _ agree _ if I kill him," Jon muttered.

"Mmm." Elias leaned in, peering hard into Jon's eyes, so suddenly Jon froze like a deer caught in the bright lights. "You have the ire for it, but do you have the _ ability? _ If I handed you a knife, could you plunge it into a beating heart?"

He imagined it. Of course he did. He'd been stabbed before, knew the pain of it, of some object splitting his skin and invading his body. That: but more.

Ice washed through his veins. 

Elias settled back on his heels. "Conviction is a difficult thing. We didn't make you a violent man."

"You didn't _ make _ me anything," Jon spat. "Fine. In the morning."

"You won't be joining us for dinner? They should be serving it soon." He examined a watch on his wrist. It looked expensive, gleaming gold. It was incredulous, the knowledge Elias has simply skipped out of prison and not only picked up a nice suit on his way, but also accessories. "It's vital to keep an eye on the time yourself, as they do not actually _ announce _dinner."

"I have no intention to dine with these people," Jon said tartly.

"Oh? Did you bring alternative substance?" His eyes positively glittered as he smiled at Jon.

And… he had, Jon realized. There was that statement from Dekker waiting for him. Wetting his lips, Jon nodded. "I'll keep myself fine."

"I'm sure you will. Though, it's not unlike biting into stale bread, is it? Nourishing, certainly, but not as filling as—"

Jon glared fiercely. "I've no mood for your games tonight."

"Jon, you are a central piece on the board between Peter and I." He waved a hand magnanimously. "But, by all means. I'll make excuses for you."

"Don't bother," Jon said, and turned, walking away and out of the conservatory.

* * *

Before returning to his own room, he checked on Martin's. To his utter lack of surprise, the door was locked, and there was no answer when he knocked.

The keyhole was on his side. Bedrooms to be locked from the outside.

When he pressed his ear to the door, he couldn't hear anything from inside the room. He couldn't hear the room at all; the telltale hollowness that came from knocking on a door was missing. There was nothing.

"Shit," Jon muttered angrily. He waited; no one answered or knocked back, or gave any sign of life.

Reluctantly, he retreated to his own room, and tested the wall he shared with Martin's. The same lack of echo followed along the entire wall. 

God, Jon hated the Lonely. Insidious and cruel in small, wretched ways. He found it egregious mostly due to how it worked, taking the bedrock of reality and shifting it just so to something colder, crueler. Just believable.

Pressing his palm against the wall, Jon sighed. All he had was the tether, the warm sensation that told him Martin was there. Unreachable, but there. Not spirited away for him to chase down again.

Swallowing, Jon eased himself back and walked to the bed. Someone had remade it in his absence, which was annoying. Whoever it was, they also brought a suit for him, hanging from a wooden hanger against the closet door. It looked dark as an undertaker's garment, wholly unsuited for a wedding.

Giving it a sneer, Jon got into bed and opened the folder Daisy had given him. Another missive from the incomparable Adelard Dekker.

With the unreasonable amount of pillows on the bed, Jon created a seat for himself, well padded and cushioned as he set the tape recorder on the comforter beside him. 

If mouth watering could be an internalized sensation, it struck Jon then. He was hungry, he wanted the knowledge, the experiences of Dekker vivid and saturated with information that existed nowhere else. Some statements didn't have much flavor, like a bland dish, but what Jon knew of Dekker, he always brought something more satisfying.

"Statement of Adelard Dekker," Jon began, the words coming to him through the gaps in his thoughts, deposited like they'd always been there. "Regarding a potential pandemic originating in the town of Klanxbüll, Germany. Original statement given 14th August, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.

"Statement begins."

The end of Adelard Dekker was in some ways a beautiful triumph. At the edges of his mind as he read, Jon felt the warmth of the man, the certainty that drowned out his doubts. An underlying understanding of his personal world lay heavy and dampening over the chaos of the universe around him. Adelard Dekker was in possession of a sense of purpose Jon could only dream of, could only taste the salt tang of around the words as they passed his lips.

Jon came to the end of the papers and closed the folder. "Statement ends." He wet his lips.

"Daisy found this one, after I asked her to help locate Dekker's statements in the Archives. I wanted to give Martin more information, some perspective that hadn't been vetted by Lukas first. I've long suspected that Peter Lukas was being careful about what he told Martin.

"It seems I was right. At present, a few facts have come into focus.

"First, that Lukas and Elias have some sort of _ deal _ revolving around Martin and myself. Maybe others. Which casts every action of the past few months in a new light.

"Second, Lukas was very particular about which information he gave Martin, what Martin was allowed to know. It seems so very convenient in hindsight, to put Martin in a position where he was discouraged from attending the Archives himself and reliant on Lukas to learn more.

"And finally, Adelard Dekker was a man who was certain of everything about his life, his work, his destination. But he was not certain about the Extinction."

Jon paused, gathering himself, looking out the window at the fog-coated estate.

"I have to do something. We— I'm currently the unwelcome guest of the Lukas family, on the eve of a— a— a _ wedding _, apparently!" His mouth twisted angrily. "Martin and I, but especially me, we've screwed this up, and now Peter Lukas is forcing Martin's hand. The plan is apparently to marry him in some nonsense esoteric ceremony, and in doing so sort of… bring the Lonely to Martin, rather than Martin to the Lonely.

"I don't know what the ultimate goal is, but everything is predicated on this— this trumped up Extinction threat.

"At present, Martin is locked in his rooms. A captive groom's bride." His voice filled with disdain. "Is that always how the Lukases do it, I wonder? For all their reputation…

"Hardly matters. I won't let it happen to Martin," Jon said, crossing his legs and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "There are parts of it that are hardly noble. I want him by my side again. I am apparently susceptible to _ extreme jealousy _." He huffed a laugh, voice lowering. "I never knew that about myself before this. The idea some horrible man can just sweep him away from me makes me angrier than I can remember being in quite some time.

"But there are some noble goals. I don't trust Lukas' plans. Hell, I don't trust Elias' plans either. All I want is to protect Martin from them both.

"The ceremony's in the morning. I think I'll turn in early. Catch Martin as soon as they release him, tell him about Dekker.

Recording ends," Jon intoned, and watched the tape recorder obediently turn itself off.

Toeing off his socks, Jon dragged a pillow under his head and lay down, shutting his eyes and willing himself to sleep, eager to reach the time when he could put his plan into motion. It wasn't much of a plan, but he'd never hard much of a plan, historically speaking, and yet he always made it through.

* * *

In the House of the Lonely, Jon's dreams were his own.

The memory of normal dreams had long since faded, worn out under the constant march of relieved, stolen memories. Jon had been dreaming other people's nightmares for months, and before that all he remembered of his coma was walking through the fears of others.

In Moorland House, Jon slept and his dreams didn't cast him as the unwilling observer to trauma. Instead, he stood in his flat, the one he'd barely seen before his coma. But the furniture was the simple pieces from the hidden bedroom that lived in the top floor of the Institute.

A familiar emotion uncurled like a cat waking from a nap. The same feeling that room had given him. A sense of peace he'd not experienced in years, settled warm in his belly.

_ I could be happy again, _ Jon thought, had thought. It was strange, like an intrusive idea he hadn't allowed. But there it was.

But first, he had to empty the closet.

He went to it, wrenched the doors open, and looked at the fine suits and linens inside.

_I want to destroy them, _ he thought, his hands moving immediately, before the concept had time to solidify. 

He took the clothes, and he put them into the fireplace. With pleasure, he watched them blacken and sink into a burning lump across the wood.

"Now what'll I wear?"

Jon looked up and saw Martin stood there in his boxers and naught else. His legs pressed together, his arm wrapped around his chest. It was cold.

The boatneck jumper came from the ether, from Jon's own desire. He helped Martin dress. When they pulled the jumper over Martin's head, he was clothed again, in striped socks and dark blue jeans and the boatneck.

Jon wanted to hold him, so he was holding him, tucking Martin's head under his chin and inhaling him. Floral, warm, exactly as Jon remembered.

Martin's mouth was moving. He was saying something. It was important, but it was static. Jon couldn't understand it, and clutched at Martin tighter to try and make sense of it.

But dreams, as a rule, didn't like to make sense, and he felt the vision falling apart piece by piece as he focused harder and harder on Martin, straining to hear him.

He woke.

There was light in the room, through the gap in the curtains. It was morning.

Gasping, Jon scrambled for his phone. The alarm he'd set— 

His phone had died sometime in the night. Of course it had!

"Shit," Jon said, and rolled himself out of bed, landing hard onto his feet and staggering immediately. "Shit, Martin."

The house was cold, under his feet and in the ambient air. His skin was going numb, making his steps even clumsier as he made for the door and yanked it.

It didn't open.

Turning the handle, Jon pulled with all his might, and only succeeded in wrenching his arm. The handle turned all the way, but the mechanism inside didn't budge.

The door didn't open.

"No. No, no no no," Jon said. Retreating to get his shoes on, he returned, planted one foot against the door frame, and pulled with all his might.

Nothing. _ Nothing. _ It may as well have been stone.

Discarding his dignity, such as it was, Jon pounded both his fists on the door, a panic rising in him like water spitting up from a drain, horrible and cold. "Open the door! Martin! Someone open this fucking door!" 

He searched the room for anything that might be able to pry it open, but there was shockingly few fixtures that could even be moved, let alone used as a crowbar.

Picking up a vase, Jon hurled it against the wall separating him from the next room. _ "MARTIN!" _ he screamed.

Ear pressed to the wall, he still heard nothing.

Helplessly, Jon spun in a circle around the room, trying to figure out anything—

The window.

Storming over, Jon tore the curtains aside to look out.

He saw the eternally fogged grounds stretched out from the house, and in the distance a chapel. A stout little building with a peaked roof and double doors that took up almost the entirety of the front facade.

"Martin," Jon breathed. The ceremony needed a chapel, or a temple, or _ whatever. _

Ripping the curtains down and away, Jon examined the tall window of his room. It was narrow, but opened from the middle, a little brass latch holding the hinged panes in place.

When he pressed it, the latch swung loose, and Jon laughed in hysterical relief. Finally, a break.

There was not a sound as each half of the window parted, swung open. No creaking, no sound of old metal. It was silent as a grave.

With little effort, Jon lifted himself onto the sill, overlooking the grounds below.

He was a decent distance from the grass below. Holy shit, he was three floors up.

The lights in the chapel were lit already. There was no time.

Sighing, Jon swung his legs over the sill, letting them dangle from his perch high off the ground.

This.

This was going to hurt.

* * *

When Martin thought about getting married, this wasn't how he thought things would go.

And yes, he was imminently aware that the likelihood of such a thing actually happening was fairly low. But he was of a romantic temperament, and he'd thought about it at least once. At least thrice.

He'd never expected to be stood in a small building that he couldn't see the edges of, surrounded by people he mostly didn't know, as well as his current employer, his _ former _ employer, and Simon Fairchild.

Ah. There it was. The loneliness he was once fair trade in. It clung to him like wet silk. He was now quite far from anyone who might have cared.

A hand rested heavy on his shoulder. "Do you remember what to say, Martin?" Peter asked in a solicitous tone.

Yes. He was supposed to say yes. Martin nodded, keeping his eyes low. He didn't— if this was it, the end of whatever his current existence was before Peter's plan came to pass, he didn't want to remember these people.

"Where's Jon?" Martin asked, voice dull and smooth as a river rock.

"Sleeping in, I imagine," Peter said.

"I doubt that," he replied with the same tone.

"And do you want us to wait? To let him see you off?" Peter clucked his tongue. "What good will that do? What becomes of the world if your dalliance with the Archivist pulls you away from saving it?"

"Don't talk about him."

"Alright," Peter said, as if he were doing Martin a favor. "I just want to be sure you're entering this with clear eyes—"

"Please shut up."

Somewhere, behind him and to the right, he heard a chortle of delight. Someone else sighed, and whispered, "Simon, _ please." _

Around them, people moved, perhaps setting up the ceremony.

Martin kept his gaze on the stone-set floor, uninterested. He felt outside his power, outside any chance of escape.

But then, he hadn't come to Peter Lukas expecting to escape again.

When the time came, there was no announcement. No priest stepped up to guide them along. There was only an altar, and Peter turning to ascend the step.

Martin took hold of the dove grey cloak that was fastened at the hollow of his throat and pulled it up out of his way as he went along, matching Peter on the opposite side of the altar.

Smiling with all the invitation of a vacant hotel, Peter laid his hand on the altar, palm up.

His turn. Martin took a breath.

The doors opened.

In a more traditional story, with fair maidens being married off to wicked men, they might've banged open in unison, dramatically. But now, one parted and swung sharply out, hitting the edge of a pew and bouncing back.

Jon caught it with a slap of his palm, fingers curled around the edge before it could hit him. Holding tight, he used it to limp slowly inside, dragging some long piece of wrought iron with him. It looked like he'd taken it from the fence outside? Regardless, the sound of metal dragging along stone was _ loud, _ a sharp grinding sound that would have been intimidating if Martin thought Jon had it in him to actually _ lift _ the metal bar.

He looked like hell. 

He looked like the most wonderful thing Martin had ever seen.

"Jon," Martin breathed. "My god, what's— you're hurt!"

"I'll heal," Jon rasped, and adjusted the bar so it stood against the ground. He leaned on it like a cane. "Sorry to interrupt. I would've been on time but someone saw fit to lock me in my room."

Martin looked across the altar at Peter, who shrugged. "Given our discussion yesterday, it seemed for the best."

"Right," Jon drawled, grinning viciously. "That is what you want, isn't it? The _ best." _

"Jon," Martin started.

"Martin, he's lying to you about Dekker," Jon cut in, taking two more halting steps forward, wincing the whole way. "Dekker _ died _ unsure if Extinction was coming or how."

God, this. This again. A cut of disappointment sliced through Martin. In a way, if Jon had come to— to appeal to him _ for _ him, that would have been… nicer. But they were arguing about statements again. "Dekker was the only person giving it serious study! I've read the statements!"

"Not all of them," Jon replied sharply. "Only what Peter hands you, and _ he," _ Jon swung up the tip of the bar enough to point to Peter, "has ulterior motives!"

From the seats, Elias started to laugh, covering his mouth swiftly.

"Oh, _ shut up _," Jon snapped at him.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Martin gathered himself, the sensible person he still was under the giddy excitement at seeing Jon here. "I know he does. I'm not an idiot. But if th-this prevents—"

"It's not going to prevent anything! Elias and Peter have a— I don't know, a deal, or a competition or _ something _ going on! And I'm damn sure that's what's really at stake here."

A deal. Blinking slowly, Martin looked up at Peter, head tilted to the side. "Peter, what's he talking about."

"Careful, Peter," Elias said sweetly. "Rules."

"Martin." Turning, Peter put both his hands on Martin's shoulders. "We are very close to finally being ready to do something about the Great Change."

His heart sank. "Tell me what the arrangement is, or I'm done."

Standing, Elias went to stand in the aisle near Jon. Jon, who immediately backed away from him with an offended look. "It's a _ very _ tricky position to be in. Having to break the terms of the bet in order to win it."

"Peter," Martin tried, gently. "If there is… a good reason behind all this, I'll do it. I'll still say yes."

"Don't, Martin—" Jon started.

Elias shushed him. "Now, Jon. Let Peter handle this. It'll be much more entertaining this way."

The way Peter's eyes didn't want to hold on Martin was becoming pronounced. He looked around the room, at Martin, down at the altar, to Martin, and then finally at Elias, with his face twisting suddenly. "This isn't fair! Elias already _ got _ his damned prize!"

"Prize?" Martin asked.

Shrugging fluidly, Elias said, "Hardly my fault you let Jon _ walk through Forsaken _ to reach you."

"Excuse me, _ what?" _ Jon snapped, stepping further away from Elias, to the space between both men.

"And what was your prize, Peter?" Martin asked sharply. But Peter wasn't looking at him, he was glaring at Elias with a fierceness Martin wouldn't have assumed him capable of before. So he slapped his hand onto the wooden surface of the altar. "Answer me! After everything, you own me that!"

But still, _ still _, Peter looked at Elias. Like Martin had ceased to exist to his vision. Instead, he jabbed a finger in the air at Elias. "You already said part of the bet out loud! I'm not the one breaking the rules!"

"I've no interest in the wager anymore outside the fallout."

"Which was your Archivist's doing!"

"But not mine," Elias said, sweet and slick. "I've been in prison! Quite removed from the board."

"Bullshit."

Amid the argument, Martin felt fingers wrap around his wrist, and looked to see Jon, having snuck under the hurled invectives to his side. He pulled, and Martin stepped perilously down from the altar, from Peter's side.

Jon's eyes were very wide, and he was apparently the only one looking at Martin.

"You _ lost _, Peter. You underestimated Jonathan's… tenacity, shall we say. And overestimated Martin's willingness to destroy himself over nothing." He looked at his fingers, and flicked an imagined speck of dust from his suit. "Nevermind you used the Lonely to pressure Martin into this path."

"I never threatened him," Peter said.

Martin turned, even as he felt Jon's hand tighten on him. "You— you did everything but!" He stared at the side of Peter's face for a moment as he let it sink in. "God. Right. Of course. You couldn't, could you? What was the point, that I had to g-go to the Lonely _ willingly?" _

Elias' smile was unnervingly pleased and proud. "Good deduction, Martin. You may claim your five pounds."

And Peter still, still, still didn't look at him.

Teeth grinding together, Martin started to pull off his vestments. The cloak thrown to the ground, the jewelry yanked off his ears and around his neck, the heavy, structured jacket onto the floor. As pieces cleared away, discarded, Jon insinuated in their place, his arms curling around Martin, until he could lock them, his fingers wrapped tight around his wrist.

Martin turned to him, and Jon pressed his forehead into Martin's hair. Breathed deeply in.

Finding his hand, Martin entwined their fingers, and felt Jon's lips curl up into a smile.

From the pews, Simon said in a bright, happy tone, "This is amazing. I do love these little get togethers your family does, Peter."

Martin lifted his head and said, "Shut up, Simon," in perfect unison with Elias.

They shared a look, and Elias smiled in that… vaguely prideful way that… Martin didn't know what to do with.

Elias lifted his chin, still smiling, still just exuding an aura of erudite pleasure that gave Martin a bad feeling all over. "Well. Now that this has been settled… Peter." He turned that piercing gaze on Peter, who was looking vaguely off into the distance. The edges of him were blurring, like the edges of the room. "I have a consolation prize for you. You are released from your role as interim Head of the Institute—"

_ "What?!" _ Martin gasped, trying to step forward. Jon held him back, tighter.

"— and are free from the… _ burden _ of responsibility." His voice was positively jovial. "No need to thank me."

"You're coming back," Jon said quietly, fearfully.

"Oh, no, no." Elias let out a long, regretful sigh. "No, I will have to return to my cell soon. I was simply out to attend an old friend's wedding. But," That cool, sharp gaze resettled on Martin. "I think I've found a perfectly capable replacement for the time being."

_ "Me?!" _ Martin squeaked. "You must be joking. Haven't you done enough?

"You have to admit, it's poetic. To be replaced by he who removed me. And you do so _ enjoy _ poetry." He walked over to Martin, and to Jon wrapped securely around him like an anchor. ( _ Oh, _ Martin thought.) "Given the suddenness of my departure, I didn't have time to groom a worthy successor. Peter himself was a plaster over a wound. You, however, have fared well enough in your… trial by fire." He placed his hand on Martin's shoulder. "Do take care of my Institute."

"Why the hell would I?" Martin asked, breathless.

Elias' eyes slid significantly to Jon, then back. "Forget the devil you know. Even better if it's you, hm?" He thankfully removed his hand. "Peter will convey you _ safely _ back to the Institute. Take the rest fo the week off if you like."

"You are really not our boss anymore," Martin reminded him angrily. "You— you're convicted of so many crimes!"

His lips downturned into a little frown. "Fine. Don't take the week off." The frown vanished, and Martin realized his expressions were as much a set of convenient masks as Peter's.

Peter. Martin turned to look, but the man was a mirage, shifting, fading like an image projected into vapor. The same effect surrounded them, the pews, the other Lukases, the walls. Everything was fading by degrees.

Simon stood, leaning on his cane. "We should get away from here. I think that old Lukas hospitality has reached its end."

"Quite right," Elias said. Holding out his arm, Simon approached and took it. "Jon, do take care of yourself. Martin… I look forward to your next visit." He glanced down at Simon. "Shall we?"

Simon nodded, and lifted his free hand. "Until next time, boys. I'd depart now. We'll be taking the express way."

Then, Simon gestured, and with a howl of furious wind snapped through the air. 

Together, he and Elias vanished, ripped through some gap in the world, in gravity, lost in the rush.

"Out," Jon said, and pushed until Martin started to move. "Out, now."

They left the chapel together, Jon's arms still locked around Martin protectively. The stairs were hard in lockstep, but soon dewy grass bent under their feet, and the oppressive feeling of distance stopped, reality sliding back into place.

No one around. Just them.

Martin met Jon's eyes, and let out a breath he'd been holding for a long time. "Jon."

"Are you alright?" Jon asked, voice pitched low.

"Yeah." He remembered something, and looked down at Jon's body. "Are you? You were limping."

"I had to jump from my window to get here," Jon explained. "Hurt for a bit."

"You— _ Jon!" _ Martin returned the gesture, holding onto Jon, trying to support his weight. "Oh my god, Jon, really?"

"I'm fine, it's already taking care of itself." He did take the opportunity to rest against Martin's chest for a moment, eyes shutting. "Martin, I'm… I don't know how to tell you, how relieved I am."

"You jumped out of a building," Martin moaned. "Don't _ do _ that."

"We should leave," Jon said, face still pressed to Martin's chest. "This place isn't safe." He leaned back, an irritated expression on his face. "My phone is dead, or I would call for a ride. I'm certain we could start walking and Daisy would pick us up."

"I don't know where my phone is," Martin murmured. "But let's… yeah. Let's go."

It really was too difficult to walk like that, wrapped up so close together. They parted enough to walk together through the fog, Jon's hand insistently wrapped around Martin's.

As they walked, Martin kept glancing at Jon. Who looked tired, who looked like a man who'd possibly broken a leg, who kept glancing back at Martin with a look of faint wonder.

Moorland House was large enough it was a hike through the gentle hills to reach the front. But eventually the black tarmac of the circular driveway was before them.

It was empty but for one black, sleek car, idling quietly.

As they walked by it, the car slid into gear and followed them.

Jon immediately swapped their positions, putting himself between Martin and the car. Which, was very sweet, but also Martin didn't know what Jon could do against a car.

It rode along to a stop at their side.

"Elias said Peter would get us home," Martin murmured.

"Like I trust either of them," Jon growled.

"Do you want to walk, what? Some sixty or seventy kilometers?" Reaching around Jon, Martin opened the back door and peered inside.

The back seats were empty, with a black glass screen separating it from the driver.

"Martin," Jon sighed.

"I'm not walking. I've had a day. I almost got married, it was a whole to-do." He slid into the car, and across the black seats to make room.

As he expected, Jon's protests faded, and he sank down into the seat beside. The reaction was instant, all of Jon's tension spilling out of him as he slumped tired, against Martin, against the seat. "Christ."

"Yeah," Martin breathed, and took Jon's hand again.

* * *

The car ride back to London seemed to take a little longer than it strictly should've. Jon disliked his inability to check his phone, to see how long they'd been driving or to see where precisely the GPS claimed they were.

There was no radio, no way to speak to the driver, and they were alone together.

Before long, Martin shivered one time too many, enough Jon couldn't help but notice. The wedding suit he'd worn, including the little fastened cape, it was all missing, leaving him in just his trousers and a rumpled shirt.

Sliding his jacket off, Jon put it around Martin, wrapping it across his shoulders before he could think to protest.

Martin, having stared at his hands for the past ten minutes, shook from his reverie and glanced at Jon. "Won't you be cold?"

"I'm fine," Jon said. There was a constant drumbeat in his skull and echoing in his ribcage. Martin was here, he was _ here, _ no more of Lukas' grip on him, it was just Martin again. The force of the emotion was staggering.

With a pinched smile, Martin looked down at his hands again. Belatedly, Jon realized he was spinning the gaudy sapphire ring around his finger, slipping it off to turn it slowly between his fingertips.

"He didn't even look at me," Martin said quietly. "After the game was up. He didn't say a single word to me."

Jon didn't know what to say. The old, tactless voice in his head, the one that always pushed and said truths that didn't need airing, wanted to tell Martin that Peter Lukas had stopped being capable of caring about people a long time ago.

But that was unhelpful. He was trying not to be a cruel person anymore. Listening to his past selves, sealed away on magnetic tape, was always an exercise in delayed horror and embarrassment.

Swallowing, Jon said, "Are you going to keep it? It's a hideous ring."

Martin got a funny little smirk on his face. "I might sell it. Consider it my alimony for all the… honestly, really _ horrible _ stuff I put up with from him?" He puffed out a laugh. "My luck, right? Finally someone wants to marry me, and it's to feed me to some great gaseous monster creature or something. Our lives are terrible in really specific ways."

The forest fire in Jon's ribs had been smouldering so long, he barely remembered what it was like to feel any different. But at those wistful little words, Jon felt the conflagration reignite, new tinder and oil on the flame. He'd spent the past few months carrying such a torch, he practically _ was _ a torch for Martin.

Jon looked down at his own hands, hanging loose in his lap. His palms were a little scraped from his fall, though the signs were fading, leaving just the streaked blood and bruises.

He wore three rings. One, a simple gunmetal band he'd found somewhere as a teen and worn forever, moving the ring from finger to finger as he grew into it. Another, from Georgie, flat and broad with two different colors of metal fit together. And the last a very plain silver ring that sat narrow around his index finger.

None of them ever moved from his hands. When he'd woken from his coma, they were with his effects, and Jon had put them on, then not touched them again. Through sleep and showers and all, they stayed in place.

_ Somebody finally wants to marry me, _ looped in Jon's brain as he stared at Martin's profile, his eyes soft and distant as he looked out the window at the countryside.

For a moment, Jon thought the silver band wouldn't come off his finger, that the ring would remain locked on by his knuckle. But with a little effort, it came loose to sit warm in his palm.

This was rash.

He would turn himself to ash if he just sat there.

Taking Martin's hand, Jon turned it over, and wordlessly slid his silver ring onto the fourth finger of his hand.

Martin caught up with what Jon was doing and said in a high, cracked voice, "Um?!"

It fit fine. Still holding Martin's hand, Jon pushed the ring to spin it around in place, safe against Martin's knuckle. "You'd probably look better in gold," Jon said with an evenness that shocked himself. "You're an autumn, after all."

"Jon, why are you putting a ring on me, I need you to be direct for once in your life," Martin told him, fast and panicked.

"Do I have to say it?" Jon murmured softly.

_ "Yes," _ Martin told him emphatically.

"If I say it, will you say yes?" Jon asked.

Martin's face flushed brightly, his eyes unwavering as he stared in shock at Jon. "I…"

"I know I've been a terror these past few months," Jon said. "Completely out of control in a way that even I find a little alarming. Seeing you and being forced to leave you alone was… more than I could bear. So I didn't, obviously." He stopped fiddling with the ring, just held Martin's hand in both of his. "I figured it out on my way through the Lonely after you. I want to make you feel safe and protected. Not being able to sort of… broke something in me." He swallowed against the walnut suddenly in his throat. "I don't feel whole without you."

"Jon," Martin breathed, sounding watery. "You don't mean that."

"The hell I don't." Finally, he met Martin's eyes. "I've discovered what living without you feels like. I never want to do it again." He kissed Martin's finger over the ring. "Stay with me. Please."

His mouth worked for a moment, no sound escaping his lips. His pupils shifted slightly back and forth, indecisive between Jon's eyes.

Jon kept his mouth against Martin's hand, waiting.

Eventually, Martin said, "Okay."

"Okay," Jon echoed. "Yes?"

"Yes," Martin breathed. "I… feel like I'm hallucinating. But just in case I'm not, yes." He laughed softly. "Yes. Even though you apparently can't spit out the actual words."

Wincing, Jon bowed his head a little. "I… believe my declarations were more effective and personal than the usual script."

"You complete arse," Martin chided him. "Fine." He tilted his head to the side, shaking a true smile loose. "Does this mean you'll be Jonathan Blackwood? Like you said before?"

"If you're willing to share it," Jon agreed.

"Okay," Martin laughed. "This is mad. I just ran away from an arranged marriage, I'm engaged again I guess, and I'm the Head of the Magnus Institute." Breathing out hard, he added, "Maybe we should take the rest of the week off. I think I need time to… decompress."

"That sounds like an excellent idea to me," Jon said, and pressed Martin's hand down against his lap, his own folded securely on top, before he leaned in and kissed Martin, eyes closed and settling in.

* * *

* * *

> _ "but in this version you are  _ not  _ feeding yourself to a bad man against a black sky prickled with small lights"  _
> 
> _ -Richard Siken,  _ Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long, Christmas is a very rough time for me. I wanted to get this one packed up and done before my birthday. (check me out being Anxious and Freaked Out on the 22nd, whoo hoo!)
> 
> That said, there is a coda for this one if anyone is interested. It'd be a short, self indulgent piece (WELL more self indulgent than even this). Jon and Martin deserve that little vacation.
> 
> Regardless, this was deliriously fun to write. Pushing Jon to the fullest extent of "fuck plans, i have determination" makes the *the* most delightful character. What the fuck will he do next? Jump out of building, probably.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and enjoying this madcap little AU. Follow me on Tumblr for more, @callmearcturus.


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